


But Your Spirit is Untainted; I Can Dedicate You Still

by BlossomsintheMist



Series: I Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Affirmations of Love, Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bondage and Discipline, Bottom Tony, Bottom Tony Stark, Canon Related, Caretaking, Chaptered, Comfort Food, Communication, Consensual Kink, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Dom Steve, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Food, Gentleness, Guilt, Honesty, Hugs, Impact Play, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insecurity, Internalized Self-Blame, Kink Negotiation, Love, M/M, Mention of Mind Control, Mentions of Dom Tony, Mentions of Erectile Dysfunction, Mentions of Partner Violence, Mentions of Sub Steve, Mentions of Violence While in a Relationship, Mentions of alcoholism, Mild Painplay, Painplay, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Power Dynamics, Power Exchange, Power Play, RACK - Freeform, Relationship Anxiety, Relationship Discussions, Relationship Issues, Safe Sane and Consensual, Self-Blame, Self-Denial, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Self-Loathing, Sensation Play, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Sub Tony, Sub Tony Stark, Subspace, Switch Power Relationship, Switching, Talking, Top Steve, Top Steve Rogers, Touch-Starved, Touching, Trust, Trust Issues, Trust Kink, Working it Out, alcoholic character, canon AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 47,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2749442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The incursions crisis is over, and Steve and Tony have gotten back together, but nothing is the same as it was.  Fearing that things are broken between them forever, Steve asks Tony something unexpected to try to make things right.</p><p>Or, Steve asks if Tony really meant what he said when he asked Steve to hurt him.  Sequel to Might Have Cherished You More Wisely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon AU, not just in the assumption of an intimate relationship between Steve and Tony, but also diverging from canon around . . . well, now, and ignoring Superior Iron Man and most of Remender's run. Actually most of Gillen's run on Iron Man, too, in order to make this version of the setting work. I started writing this a bit ago, and decided to just keep going, as I mentioned in the first part of this, toward the beginning of the incursions storyline, so it will no doubt diverge more and more from canon as both the fic and canon go on.
> 
> Thank you so much to Chrism, again, as always, for being my beta, always, and unfailingly encouraging me. You're probably the source of half my ideas. And to Shaliara, for your enthusiasm for my fics and your support on this one in particular.
> 
> The title is from "The Old Astronomer," by Sarah Williams.
> 
> "I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife,—  
> Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;  
> But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still . . . ."

It had been a long time since they’d shared the same bed.  They hadn’t even been sleeping together regularly back . . . when things had been good, before everything had happened; it just hadn’t worked out that way.  And then, with all of it, all the lies, all his lies, all of it, everything he’d done—how guilty he felt just smiling at Steve or bringing him a cup of coffee or calling him honey, the word choking in his throat, the last thing Tony had wanted was to intensify that false intimacy, to cuddle up in bed beside Steve like a lover.  Even if that was, technically, what he still was. 

 

Even now, he supposed he was Steve’s lover, despite the distance between them—the tension when their eyes made contact, their halted, stilting conversations except when words got pointed and short and heated again, the uncertainty in every touch. But it wasn’t just Tony longing after their past closeness, averting his eyes hurriedly when Steve looked at him, clinging to the word.  Steve had kissed him, afterward, after everything, and not stopped with the simple soft touch of their mouths, instead slipping his tongue softly between Tony’s lips and smoothing it soft and slow over Tony’s, shocked and slow to respond, overwhelming him with warmth until his throat had felt thick and his chest hurt and there had been a steady ache behind his eyes that he had to blink against more than once.  There had been times since then, after everything, when they had shared the warmth of their bodies, too, times with Tony down on his knees in front of Steve, beneath him on the bed despite his weight, loving every moment of the pressure, or Steve’s chest warm and firm and immovable against Tony’s back in the shower, his cock heavy between Tony’s thighs, the rush of heat and pleasure and the strange intense intimacy of it all every time it happened, the intimacy that felt so lacking from most of the rest of their interactions these days, the intimacy that made Tony’s heart turn over and twist up painfully in his chest, and his stomach ache and flip-flop, fluttering with little warm jolts and feeling sick at the same time.

 

It felt so strange, Steve wanting him again, after everything, that Tony wasn’t sure what to do with it, or how to act. Even how to please him, really. It didn’t help that the difficulties that had plagued him for weeks now with maintaining an erection were still rearing their ugly heads, humiliatingly enough (or not rearing them, or anything, as it turned out, he thought wryly to himself), his own continuing dull depression and the anxiety he couldn’t seem to banish, that dogged him every moment he was awake, it felt like, like a worn track in his mind from living with it for so long, interacting with that uncertainty, that confusion about why Steve would want him at all.  Once that got in his head, it could kill his erection no matter how excited he’d felt. He hated it, it was humiliating as hell, and it didn’t seem fair, when just looking at Steve made his heart jump into his throat and pound, his hands go a little trembly with passion and feeling and the same flush of heat would rise over the back of his neck and coil in his belly whenever Steve looked at him with dark heat in his eyes, or touched him, just as much as ever—but there it was.  Sometimes Tony would rather just suck Steve off or let him come between his thighs or over his skin, pushing Steve’s hands away from his own cock after Steve finished rather than risk the humiliation of not being able to stay hard long enough to finish for himself.  Steve didn’t seem happy about it, frustrated or maybe concerned, or both, but there was really nothing Tony could do about that.  Steve wanted to have sex with him, so that was how it was going to be, that was how it was, right then, and if Steve wanted him, this was how he was going to have to take him—and it wasn’t like Tony wasn’t getting anything out of it, even if he didn’t come.  Just having Steve’s hands on his shoulders, in his hair, on his hips, felt like enough intense warmth and sensation to last him for weeks, almost too much, after . . . after everything.  But Steve certainly didn’t seem as satisfied as he could be, as satisfied as Tony wanted, no matter how hard Tony tried to make up for it. Tony had so much to make up for, but he kept feeling like he might just be digging the hole he was in even deeper for himself.

 

Tony had been so surprised when Steve had brought it up, suggested it, Steve sleeping in Tony’s own wide bed, but if Steve wanted it . . . wanted that, something so simple, who was Tony to deny him? Even if it was the last thing he’d expected Steve to want now, of all times.  If Steve wanted it, it was the least he could do.  And he . . . he wanted it, too.  So much so it made him feel ashamed with it, and he tried not to think about it.  He was trying not to think about what he wanted too much.  It made things so much harder, twisted his head around and confused him when he needed to keep his mind on what Steve wanted, on making things right again. And it didn’t feel much like he deserved to be dwelling on things like that, anyway.

 

So they were doing that, now. Every night, no matter how the day had gone, Steve showed up at Tony’s door, and Tony would let him in, and they would get ready for bed.  It was awkward, at first, to change his clothes in front of Steve again, like that, in that quiet, nonsexual intimacy, somehow, even though it would have been easy enough to get undressed to have sex with him, but Tony pushed himself to do it all the same, feeling like if he put that boundary between them now, they’d never get past it.  The first night, he offered to help Steve out of his uniform, not that Steve needed his help, the way he’d used to, when things between them had been warm, and intimate, and it had been a sweet, playful thing he did with his lover.  But it felt distant, hollow.  He found his eyes resting on the curve of Steve’s shoulder, the strong muscles there, at the back of his neck, wanting to press his lips to that clear, smooth skin, just beneath the crux of his shoulder, and not doing it, not closing that distance, like it was impossible for him to lean forward and press his lips, warm and soft, to Steve’s skin, like that would be crossing a barrier he hadn’t been invited to bridge.  Just touching Steve felt like too much already, even if all he wanted was to wrap his arms around him, press himself against his back, rest his head against the back of Steve’s neck, so he . . . didn’t.  He wasn’t sure how to.  He wasn’t sure he had the right, anymore.  So he didn’t, and he felt strange offering again, after that, even though he wanted to. Sometimes Steve would lean forward, cup Tony’s neck in his palm and touch their lips together in a kiss, soft and simple and barely there, a good night kiss, and Tony would suck in his breath and freeze and try to make himself kiss back without fumbling too much—and sometimes Steve wouldn’t.  Tony never knew when it was going to happen, and so he just . . . let Steve decide, and leaned forward into the kiss when it came.

 

Then they’d get into bed, each on either side of it, with most of the wide expanse of Egyptian cotton sheets and pillows and blankets between them.  They wouldn’t touch, or curl around each other like they had once, but despite all of it, it was still easier to sleep when Tony could listen to the sound of Steve’s breathing in the dark, behind him, feel his body warm on that side of the bed. It had been so long, it felt like, since Tony had gotten a good night’s sleep, that he found himself dropping off almost immediately, counting the rhythm of Steve’s breaths enough to relax him for that lurking exhaustion to take over and drag him down into it. It was better than being alone. That was the honest, humiliating truth—despite the way it threw the distance between them into high relief, it was so much better than lying there without him and remembering the times they’d lain there together, that it was impossible to quantify. Just having Steve there again—it felt like everything.  Even though it wasn’t, it was so far from what he’d had, it still felt like everything, like too much.  Like more than he deserved.

 

Things stayed that way for more than a week. Steve moved his pajamas (mostly boxers and t-shirts) into Tony’s room, brought his toothbrush, but they lay no closer together, and Tony was certain that Steve never touched him once they were already in bed.  They had sex, certainly.  In bed, even. But not at night, not once they’d climbed into bed together, and Steve kept handling Tony almost ridiculously gently, despite Tony’s not so well-hidden frustration with that, like Steve thought he was made of glass, or like he’d break him if he gripped too hard. He wasn’t going to, and Tony thought he would rather Steve scream at him, rather he showed how he actually felt, than this restraint, distant, far-away and so carefully controlled, like he wasn’t about to let on to Tony about the truth.  He didn’t know how Steve actually felt, but he knew this wasn’t it. Steve wasn’t like this, careful, controlled, distant, underneath.  Steve burned hot and pure and furious and brilliant, like a furnace that could burn Tony if he touched it, but touchable, within reach, not like a distant star.

 

If he wasn’t going to show Tony how he felt, then what was the point of doing this again, anyway?  What good was he doing Steve if they just kept orbiting each other and never really touched?  Even when they were touching. 

 

Tony thought he might have given almost anything to touch Steve again, and know it had made a difference—almost anything, except the things he wouldn’t ever give, and those things were how he had broken this between them in the first place, weren’t they?  So what was the point of promises, or grand gestures to try to reach Steve, or win him back somehow, or recapture the sweet, easy closeness that had meant so much to him?  They were all a lie, when the truth was he’d have shattered what the two of them had all over again if the same situation came up.  He couldn’t offer Steve any assurance, any safety, anything real at all except the warning of more lies, and more betrayals.  So of course Steve didn’t want to touch the real him, he figured. Tony wouldn’t have either.

 

So maybe there really wasn’t any point, and it was only his own selfish needinesss that kept him from ending this with Steve then and there.   The words burned on his lips so many times, on the verge of being uttered.  But something always stopped him.  Maybe it was simply the knowledge that they had been so good together, that Tony had been so happy, and more importantly, that Steve had been happy, too, the memory of him lying with his head in Tony’s lap, brushing Tony’s jaw with his thumb, his fingers, and saying, quietly, “It’s never been like this before for me, Shellhead.”  Or maybe it was that Steve had approached him, had been the one to kiss him, after everything had happened, had stayed with Tony while he recovered from his injuries, still seemed to look to him for . . . something, even if it was just simple physical pleasure—but no, something more, too, whatever led him to want to spend his nights in Tony’s bed.  Tony couldn’t turn his back on that.  A look in Steve’s eyes or the way he sighed when Tony laid a tentative hand on his shoulder, the way he’d put his arms around Tony, kissed his neck, when they’d had sex in the shower, and sighed thickly against his skin—there was something there, and whatever Steve was thinking, or working through, Tony wasn’t going to be the one to break it for him.  Not this time. It was Steve’s call.

 

He just wasn’t sure that he could ever be what Steve wanted.  What he was looking for. The Tony Steve wanted. He wasn’t even sure if the Tony Steve wanted really existed.

 

Maybe Steve was finally realizing how idealized the picture of Tony he’d fallen in love with had been, all along. That the real Tony Stark really was the . . . the traitor he’d despised.  The man who had deserved every bit of his anger.

 

But the least he could do was to stay, to stay, and wait, and let Steve decide.  He owed him that much.  Not to be the one to walk away from him.

 

And the real Tony Stark did love Steve Rogers, whatever his other sins.  There was that, too. Tony had never been quite sure where that left him.  His heart ached with a sweet, sharp pain when he looked at Steve, or thought of him, and being allowed to slide his arms around him, or rest against his body, felt like completing the most perfect equation of all time, and the way Steve touched him sometimes made his throat seize up and close and he couldn’t stop himself from following Steve with his eyes.  And the last thing he had ever wanted was to make Steve as messed up and confused as Tony was, to drag him into the muck with him, and it was all he ever seemed to do, and he didn’t know what was wrong with him, that he couldn’t help dragging Steve down with him.  He loved him, didn’t he? Why couldn’t he keep him out of it? Why couldn’t he keep him away?

 

But he knew why.  It was because Steve followed him, every time, just like he couldn’t help but follow Steve, because Steve was his lodestone, his Pole Star, the rudder on his ship, and he didn’t know what he was to Steve, but Steve didn’t seem to think he was nothing at all, or the bilge Tony felt had felt like sometimes over the past however long when Steve smiled at him as his boyfriend, his lover, and he had to swallow his bile when he remembered Steve yelling at them all across the table, betrayal and fury and disappointment in his eyes, and what had come after that—

 

Tony knew he loved him.  It was just that sometimes he felt like his love was the vector for a terrible, crippling, debilitating disease, and he wanted to spare the people he loved that pain.  And he knew that was self-pity, and that behind that door was a way he’d spiraled out of all control before, but God, sometimes the self-loathing just got so thick and dark, and he couldn’t push past it anymore, and it wasn’t like he could ask for Steve’s strong hands to pull him out.  Not after everything.  Not when Steve deserved to be the one to push him further in, and maybe kick him in the guts for good measure.  He kept remembering the look in Steve’s eyes as he’d hauled back and punched him, and he knew Steve had beaten on him before, that they’d fought in the streets of New York City, but he couldn’t _remember_ that, not the way he remembered that punch sending him flying back across the room, sprawling, the way his head had snapped back and bright lights had flashed in his eyes and he couldn’t breathe for the shock for long moments.

 

Tony was trying so hard not to be selfish, or take more than what Steve wanted to give, just love him, and offer himself, and be here for Steve to take if he wanted him, and push away if he didn’t, but the uncertainty was hard to handle.  Tony had never been good with uncertainty, and he found himself worrying it, fretting over it, dissecting it into little pieces and taking it apart over and over, unable to leave it be.

 

The exhaustion that had pulled him down into sleep like a drug for days must have started to wear off as the second week of them sharing a bed wore on, because Tony found himself waking up in the middle of the night, gasping with a nightmare that was already nothing but fragmented images (dead worlds, Steve vanishing before his eyes in a flash of light and Tony knowing, _knowing_ he was gone)—he bit it back viciously, made his breathing go quiet, and then blinked into the darkness of the room, rolled back, startled, to look behind him, because he could feel a hand, fingers, palm, warm and heavy on his hip, curved over it, fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his boxers, tightened just enough to bunch it up against his skin.

 

Steve had moved over across the bed, closer to him, was sprawled out across it, one arm underneath him, the other stretched out across the space between them to rest against Tony’s hip. He wasn’t pulling him closer, but it was a hold with some strength behind it.  Tony didn’t have the heart to shake it off.  He swallowed, turned back to face his own side a bit, then, hesitantly, moved his hand down, let his fingers rest, barely touching, over Steve’s.

 

What was Steve doing?  Had he had a nightmare, too?  It made a certain amount of sense, if he had, if he was just reaching out in search of comfort, and Tony was just there, a warm body to hold onto instead of a pillow.  He could have been anyone. And Tony, he—he was happy to be Steve’s pillow any time.  He was. He really was, but—

 

It felt good.  So good.  Tony let his fingers settle onto Steve’s a little more, set his jaw and turned his face into the pillow as he failed to keep back a ragged gasp for breath.

 

He couldn't make anything out of it, let himself behave—feel—like it meant something.  That wouldn’t be right.  Steve was fast asleep, and it wasn’t as if Tony had any intention of putting him on the spot by mentioning it, by calling him on his actions in his dreams. But it felt like . . . it didn’t feel like the way things had been, the two of them entwined in each other’s arms, or curled around each other, but it felt so much closer to that. And Tony was being an idiot, because it wasn’t real—it wasn’t real. 

 

He forced himself not to think about it, moved his hand off of Steve’s, took a deep breath, but it was hard not to pay attention to the warmth of that hand curled over his hip, on top of Steve’s steady breathing behind him, the vivid evidence of Steve’s presence in his bed and that connection he’d never expected, and he ended up lying there awake for a long time. 

 

Steve’s hand felt so warm.

 

He eventually fell asleep, and then, as always, Steve got up before he did, and he woke up alone.  As if it had never happened.  Steve brought him breakfast, and Tony ate it because Steve had brought it, feeling painfully awkward, trying to put Steve’s warm hand curled over his hip out of his mind and force himself to smile at him and make eye contact. He leaned in and kissed Steve good morning, though, after his coffee, and he didn’t think he’d imagined the way Steve smiled at the kiss, the way something kindled in his face and he lit up like a lightbulb.  That was nice, and Tony couldn’t deny the warmth it sent through him.  That was one of those things, one of those things that kept him from trying to break it off, for Steve’s sake.  If he could still make him smile . . . he didn’t know.

 

Tony noticed it again, the next night, though. Steve rolled over, and his hand came to rest against Tony’s back, making him jump, shivering with surprise. But Steve didn’t move it, just sighed out another slow, sleepy breath and subsided against the bed. Tony swallowed, staring into the dark, but Steve just stayed like that, his hand as warm and heavy and incredibly, inexpressibly comforting as ever against his skin.

 

He closed his eyes.  It surprised him how much more quickly sleep came for him this time.

 

After that he realized that it wasn’t just a one-time thing.  Or a two-time thing, or even just an occasional thing.  Every night, Steve would roll over, and his hand would find Tony, curling against his thigh, against his hip, or knotting in his t-shirt.  Whenever Tony woke up in the middle of the night, he would find Steve’s hand there, resting against him, somewhere. Steve never pulled him closer, he just . . . held on.  Tony had no idea how he’d missed it for that long.  He felt ridiculous.  And, well, it had to mean . . . something, didn’t it?  He started to wonder if maybe he should mention it, after all. If Steve was doing it every night, reaching out—maybe it was true that it was just an urge to reach out in his dreams, for comfort, that he would have done the same thing with anyone there, but Tony felt like he should at least ask, maybe, if Steve wanted to sleep closer together in the bed, if maybe he wanted what Tony wanted, and missed that remembered closeness.  Or even if he only just wanted someone to hold onto in bed, closer would be better, right?

 

He told himself to do it that night, and he was getting himself up to it, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, when he realized Steve was pacing.  They’d taken a shower together, had sex again (Tony still felt a little breathless from it, the way Steve had effortlessly picked him up off his feet so that they dangled off the floor, pressed him into the wall of the shower, covering him with his body until the pressure and heat and the shape of Steve’s muscular body alone kept Tony suspended between him and the wall, pressed wet, hot kisses into his mouth until Tony’s lips fell open for him on breathless moans, covered his neck and chest in damp dragging kisses and the heat of his open mouth, the shower streaming hot and wet down over them, until Tony had just been clutching at him for balance, squirming desperately to rub his cock against Steve’s chest, and Steve had held him still until he had relaxed in Steve’s hold, then coaxed him to move at the pace Steve set, working himself against Steve’s body and lost in the way Steve had held him, the way Steve held his gaze, the look in his eyes, and when Steve had come, it had been all over Tony’s skin before the water of the shower washed it away), and Tony had come out of the bathroom after trying his best to put himself back together and scrape his composure off the floor, get his brain back in gear somehow, to find Steve pacing at the foot of the bed and pressing his hands together.

 

Maybe Steve had regretted it, was Tony’s immediate thought.  Reaching out to him that way.  Tony had clearly done something wrong, Steve looked deep in thought, and—Tony swallowed, watching him and trying not to react too obviously.  It had felt incredible to Tony, freeing, impossibly vivid and intense—but it didn’t necessarily follow that it had felt like that to Steve.

 

He was probably tired of Tony’s weight, of holding him up.  By now. What had Tony ever done to make that worth his while, anyway?

 

Tony sat on the bed, almost opened his mouth again to ask Steve the question he’d come in geared up to ask, then closed his mouth and subsided again, watching him.  After a moment, Steve raised his head, looked over at him.

 

Their eyes met.  Tony was taken aback by the look in Steve’s, soft, somehow, but torn, conflicted, like he didn’t know what he wanted to say.  He didn’t know what he wanted to say, either, in response. He ended up not saying anything, his mind scrambling for something and finding nothing, and then Steve turned toward him a little more, squaring himself up.  Tony swallowed.

 

“What’s up, honey?” he finally managed to murmur, and immediately winced at the banality of it.  Maybe this was it, he thought, and was suddenly glad he hadn’t made a fool of himself by asking if Steve wanted to lie closer in bed. Wanted to cuddle. Of all things. He was such an idiot, he really was.

 

Maybe it was something else, he told himself, but he couldn’t think what.

 

“There’s something I was wondering,” Steve said, quickly, and then looked like he thought he’d blurted that out too fast.

 

Not fast enough, if you asked Tony. “Yeah,” he said, and took a deep breath to steady himself.  Here it came. “I kind of gathered. What is it?”

 

Steve frowned, took a deep breath, blew it out again. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Tony bit the inside of his cheek. What was he going to say—was this finally it, the end, the sex in the shower one last go at it before Steve broke it off for good?  It wasn’t like Tony could have blamed him.  He tried very hard to cut off how he felt, not dwell on the dark, cold aching hole that felt like it was opening in his heart and the emptiness it brought with it, the way that hurt.  He’d been half-waiting for that ever since they’d started this again, since Steve had said, not quite hesitantly, _we never actually did break up, did we?_ and kissed him that first time, after it all had happened. He’d been ready. Hadn’t he?

 

“Do you still want me to hurt you?” Steve said, his voice quick, a little bit too loud and even, like he was trying very hard to control it.

 

Tony stared at him.  Out of anything he might have been expecting, that . . . that wasn’t it.  He was left scrambling, stalling, left without anything to say in response.  “What?” he finally managed.  It was just so far away from what he’d expected.

 

Steve swallowed, and his jaw went square; he shifted his weight like he half-wanted to be in parade rest, but instead his hands came forward, and he clasped one of them over the other. “Before . . . I . . . remembered,” he said haltingly, “we were in a scene, and you . . . asked me to hurt you. I said I wouldn’t. You pushed me on it. But you were down. I wouldn’t do it.”

 

Tony swallowed convulsively, then hoped it hadn’t been too loud, too obvious.  He . . . did remember that, yes.  He remembered being so miserable it had felt like it was crushing him under it, the guilt, and being down in it, and suddenly it had just been too much, the guilt all around him, heavy and dark and overwhelming, like he’d lost his footing, taken his eyes off the goal and now there was nothing else. Feeling like his own guilt and shame and self-loathing and the truth of his sins were seeping through him, poisoning him, every millimeter of him, and feeling like maybe if there was pain from Steve, from Steve’s good hands, from the man he loved and had wronged, that it would feel as if it were searing the darkness away, cleansing him. Instead of simply burning him like ice against his skin, sinking him down further into the darkness of his sins, the way Steve’s kindness, his gentle care and efforts at affection, his innocence of it all and the bright light in his eyes, had done. He remembered seizing on that idea like a dying man seized on an offhand comment from a doctor about a new treatment plan, desperately, with both hands, the way he’d fixated on it, convinced that it would help, that it was the only thing that would make any of it all right again, even if only for a few moments, even if only when he was hurting.

 

He had been wrong, of course. When he’d come back up, and Steve had been there, and he could think straight through how humiliated he’d felt, he’d realized that it probably wouldn’t have helped at all. Worse than that, it would have been using Steve in another way, selfishly, hurting him by making him hurt Tony then, when he hadn’t had any desire to, because Tony wanted it, instead of later, when he knew Steve would want to for his own reasons.  Tony owed it to Steve, to wait, he’d decided. And so he had. And Steve _had_ ended up wanting to hurt him, and that had been . . . fine, he’d had every right, and now . . . well, here they were.

 

He looked at Steve a moment.  This, what Steve was talking about now, wasn’t the same as a barely-pulled punch to the face, though, that was clear. Tony wasn’t so messed up that he’d just have stood there and let Steve smack him around like that in the name of their relationship, anyway.  _Yet_ , he thought with wry, black humor. He could see the anxiety in Steve’s face, the way he was looking at him—

 

“I remember,” Tony said, thickly. “It wasn’t my finest moment, was it?”

 

“I understand why you did it now,” Steve said, eyes wide and sincere, and swallowed, himself.  “The . . . burden you were under.”

 

“Okay, no,” Tony said, abruptly, that same deep, surprisingly sharp pain cutting into him that he’d felt so often during the time when he was lying to Steve and still pretending to carry on a relationship, like a blade cutting a deep, arcing swath of it into his heart. Tony knew he deserved that pain, but still, this was so—it was so _wrong_. “Let’s not.  Don’t do that, Steve.” 

 

Steve frowned.  “What?” he said, quietly.

 

“Don't try to make excuses for me,” Tony returned, and now _his_ voice was too loud, and he couldn’t seem to get it back under control.  “I lied to you.  I betrayed you. I—”

 

“So you deserved to suffer?” Steve demanded.

 

Tony stared at him, taken aback.

 

“That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?” Steve asked, his jaw tensing.

 

“I’m just saying,” Tony said. He didn’t want Steve to try to . . . make up a story now where Tony hadn’t done anything that bad, or make excuses for him in order to forgive him.  “I made that bed for myself.  It’s my own fault I ended up lying in it.  And the way I manipulated you—”

 

“I’ll decide how I feel about the way you manipulated me,” Steve said, stolid as ever, and crossed his arms across his chest. He sighed, and loosened his arms. There was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “I know that, Tony.  You don’t have to remind me.”

 

“Well, it seems like I do,” Tony said, still stinging from that exchange.

 

“You don’t,” Steve said, with finality. Tony knew better than to push when Steve’s voice got that ring to it, though sometimes he still did. Sometimes it was worth it. But not now, definitely not now.

 

“Okay,” he said, letting it go.

 

“Okay,” Steve said, with a slight little quirk of a smile, almost questioning, then his face sobered again, but into softer lines than it had before, that same soft solemnity he’d had earlier. “I have mixed feelings about it,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of understanding that you were under a lot of pressure.”  He raised his eyebrows at Tony.  “Wherever it came from, whether it was your fault, or my fault, or what, it was still there. What I’m saying is that . . . I understand, a little more, where you were coming from.  And I . . .” but here he got hung up again, and he stopped, and swallowed, wet his lips.  “I . . .”

 

Tony shifted uncomfortably.  The last thing he wanted to do right now was to talk about his own weakness, the time he had given in under that pressure, his own failures. He opened his mouth to respond, with what he wasn’t quite sure, another attempt to get Steve off this topic, but before he could Steve had his head up and was speaking again.

 

“I wanted to ask you,” he said, “if you still wanted that.”

 

“Are you offering?” Tony asked bluntly. None of this made any sense, and he wasn’t sure where he was standing here, or where the conversation was going, forget being on solid ground, but he figured it was best to get it all out there as quickly as possibly, now that Steve had started that way.

 

Steve blinked, swallowed, flushed, but didn’t look away.  “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

 

Tony sat back on the bed, satisfied, now, that he at least knew what they were talking about, but no less confused for all that. So they weren’t breaking up. Did this mean that was what Steve wanted? 

 

Hell, _did_ he want that?  Steve to hurt him. He could imagine it, vividly, the strength of Steve’s grip on his wrists, or his hips, pushing him into any position Steve wanted, the force behind a blow with a belt or a whip or even his hand across his ass, Steve standing over him not after laying him out on the mat in the gym (or after hauling off and punching him across the room), but after covering Tony with welts, Tony’s hands bound—they’d never done anything like that before, not with Tony being the one to take it, but Tony had some experience. With other—other partners. He’d never gotten into it, the pain, the rough handling, only when it had been in pursuit of adrenaline-driven heat or urgency, not for its own sake, but somehow, imagining Steve in the place of any other partner, in that role, made heat jump and twist in Tony’s belly, hot and urgent, shockingly so.  It wasn’t the idea of the pain, it was the idea of _Steve_. Offering it to him. Giving it to him. Because Tony had asked him to—Tony had asked him to, and he’d agreed.  He swallowed, ran his hands down his forearms and linked his hands, trying to get a grip.

 

What did that mean?

 

“If I said yes,” Tony said slowly, “what would happen then?”  He forced himself to look up at Steve, not blinking or wavering.

 

“You mean, do I have a game plan?” Steve asked.

 

Tony gave a wry smile.  “That’s your business,” he said.  “I mean . . .” what did he mean, though?  He remembered Steve saying with such firmness, _you don’t like it like that_.  It was true.  He thought that if Steve had hurt him then, he’d have been in agony.  Miserable.  It would have felt terrible, like deserved punishment.  It would have felt like breaking something.  But that was what he’d destructively, desperately, been pushing himself toward.  “Do you see me differently?” he finally asked.  “Would you do it?” Steve had redded out before. Would he even really want to do it? Tony had no idea.

 

But then, maybe Steve’s capacity for violent fantasies involving him had been upped recently.  That would make a certain amount of sense. Tony swallowed again, even though that thought made his throat ache.  He imagined himself the focus for Steve’s violent fantasies, assuming he had any, and had to swallow again.  He wondered how much that would hurt.

 

He wondered if he’d enjoy it if it did.

 

He wondered if that would feel searing, cleansing, or just like breaking something.

 

Steve wasn’t like that, anyway. Steve wouldn’t try to break him. Tony knew that. The only one of them that had been trying to break Tony had been Tony himself, back there, and Steve had put his arms around him and gently held him back from that edge, and then been kind enough not to push him more than that.

 

Steve wasn’t like that.

 

“If you said you wanted it, I would,” Steve said.

 

Uh-huh.  What did _that_ mean? If Tony said he wanted it. “So why now?” Tony asked.

 

Steve swallowed, and his unwavering gaze flickered at that.  He looked down. “Things changed,” he said. “And you asked me. I understand why now. I think.”  He took a deep breath.  “I’d never even thought of it that way,” he said, “before you asked. And it . . . I thought about it a lot, after. It.  Bothered me, I guess.”

 

Tony swallowed, feeling a wave of guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I . . . wasn’t thinking, when I asked you before, I—”

 

“It was fine,” Steve said, cutting him off, his eyes fixed on him again and very sincere.  “I know.  You were spaced out, you’re not _supposed_ to be thinking. It’s fine, Tony.”

 

“It’s not fine,” Tony murmured, swallowing, “if it bothered you.”

 

“You said what you were feeling,” Steve said. “It’s my business . . . to work it out.” He took a deep breath. “I’d rather you be honest than leave me guessing, even if it’s tough,” he said, and, well, ow. That certainly put things into perspective, didn’t it?

 

“Understood,” Tony said, feeling his mouth twist up. What else _could_ he say, after all?

 

Steve’s face did something strange, almost painful, and his mouth looked soft and vulnerable and a little guilty, suddenly. “It’s just that you don’t . . . let me see that side of you all the time,” he said.

 

Tony made a face, couldn’t help it, scrunching his mouth to one side.  “Yeah,” he said. “I know.  Secretive and emotionally unavailable, that’s me. You’re right on target there.” It wasn’t a coincidence that he spent most of his time encased in armor, he knew how it went.

 

“Tony,” Steve said, sounding honestly pained now.

 

“What?” Tony said.  His stomach hurt, but that didn’t matter.  He’d always known the truth hurt.  “It’s true, isn’t it?  I know that just as well as you do.”

 

“That wasn’t why I brought this up,” Steve said, and he sounded frustrated now, upset.

 

“Okay,” Tony said, and he did believe that, he really did.  “Why did you, then?”

 

Steve looked at him a moment, took a deep breath, as if he was about to speak, then blew it out.  “I want to know the answer to the question first,” he said, looking uncharacteristically uncertain, though his voice was firm enough.

 

“What if I can’t give it to you right now?” Tony said, suddenly uncomfortable.  Because he really didn’t think he could, but he didn’t want to . . . this felt like something that he . . . that he didn’t want to just write off. The way Steve was looking at him right now—the way they were talking—

 

“That’s fine,” Steve said.  “Then I’ll wait.  Take your time.”

 

Tony frowned.  He hated it when things didn’t make sense, and none of this did, and the softness in Steve’s voice, the fact that they’d actually talked, and it had been tense and hard, but Steve hadn’t _left_ , even if it had been, it made him just want—all he wanted was to reach out toward Steve, and ask him for things he told himself he wouldn’t ask for, that he’d let Steve decide whether he ever wanted to give him again.

 

“But Tony . . .” Steve said, and hesitated, then came around the end of the bed, let his hand rest on Tony’s shoulder, the weight of it very warm even through the fabric of his shirt, heavy, making Tony shiver a little despite his efforts to control his response.  Just having Steve’s hand heavy on his shoulder made him feel warm all over, and that was . . . it was pathetic, the way it made his chest feel tight, made him feel flushed and a little lightheaded.  Steve looked at him a moment, his thumb rubbing lightly just above the neck of the t-shirt Tony was wearing, and then he leaned forward and brushed a light, soft, barely-there kiss to Tony’s forehead, the warmth of his breath ruffling his hair there, and Tony couldn’t seem to help the way his breath caught at that.  “It doesn’t make any difference to whether I want this with you or not,” Steve said, voice quiet and serious.  “Our . . . relationship. Whatever you say. It doesn’t matter. I’ll still want to be with you. Just like this. There’s no . . . no reason you should do anything you don’t want to do.  Understood?”

 

Tony swallowed hard.  “All right,” he said.  He still didn’t understand why Steve wanted to be with him at all. But he could see what Steve was saying. It even made him feel a little warm, and yeah, a little relieved.  More than a little, as what Steve had just said started to sink in and he realized what that meant, what it really meant, and he started to feel a little weak with it, dizzy and even warmer all over.  Here he’d been thinking that Steve was about to break things off between them, that it was practically inevitable, just a matter of time, but that wasn’t how Steve was talking, not at all.  So it wasn’t over.  For whatever reason, however insane it might seem to Tony, Steve wasn’t giving up. And maybe that meant he could still fix things, make it work again between them.  Maybe, somehow, they still had a chance.  “I get it, champ.”  It was amazing, how even his voice sounded, even if he did feel rather warm in the face.

 

Steve hesitated, looking down at him, and then he flushed a little, turned his head a little to one side and his mouth tightened, worked, and he flushed a little more, then shook his head, almost minutely, as if at himself, and started to turn away, and—before could talk himself out of it, Tony pushed himself up just enough to catch Steve’s neck against his palm, press a soft kiss to his lips.  Steve gasped a little, then went pink, and squeezed his eyes shut, just for a moment, pressing back into the kiss without opening his mouth in an artlessly straightforward way that had nothing on how Steve usually kissed, but somehow felt all the sweeter for all that.  Tony was struck by that response, had a lump in his throat as he pulled away that made him catch his hands in the sides of Steve’s shirt, curl his fingers in against the fabric.  “What’s up?” he said.

 

Steve flushed a little more, deep pink all along his cheeks and into his ears.  “You kissed me,” he said, then swallowed.  “You kissed me good night,” he said, in the tone of someone elaborating, then smiled, looked down a little sheepishly.  His words were quick, almost embarrassed, and he put his hands on his hips as he looked down.  “You haven’t, for a . . . a long time, and I thought maybe you didn’t want it, and you were just . . . going along.  I thought maybe I should quit it.”

 

“Oh,” Tony said, quietly, a little surprised. “Oh.  I.”  _Wow_ , he thought.  _Good going, Stark._ He gave a rough, self-deprecating laugh, mostly directed at himself, as he pulled his hands away. “No, it’s not—I do want . . . that. Them.  I . . . always liked them.”  And he did, he loved that Steve kissed him good night, the warm, sweet softness, the simple intimacy of it.  He always had.  But he hadn’t known what Steve wanted from him after everything, so he hadn’t even thought that Steve might be waiting for him to reciprocate.  He hadn’t thought about how much he liked anything; he’d been so focused on trying to figure out what Steve wanted from him.  He thought maybe . . . he should probably think about that a little bit more. He could feel the realization washing over him. Assuming Steve cared for him—which he did seem to, against all odds—he was the type of person who would care about what Tony liked and didn’t like.  He knew that.  That much was obvious. Steve was a good man. Of course he would care, and he’d feel badly if Tony ignored what he himself wanted entirely, just to make Steve happy.

 

Tony really had been being an idiot lately. He was so stupid. Of course Steve would want to know how much Tony wanted him.  He’d need to know to make a decision, any kind of a decision, and even if it felt terrifying, a lot like just deciding to leave the chestplate of the armor off in a firefight, to let him see it, well—

 

It was Steve.  Tony could be brave, especially to see him smile like that, to see him lit up and pink with pleasure in his cheeks.  The fluttering feeling in Tony’s stomach was back, stronger than ever.

 

“Okay,” Steve said, still smiling, and bent down, brushed two fingers under Tony’s chin and tilted it up.  When Tony was looking at him, he feathered a quick, soft kiss over Tony’s lips, then released him.  Tony struggled to catch his breath, feeling oddly short of it. He hadn’t seen Steve smile like that for a . . . while, not at him.  God, worth it was right.  It was so worth it. No matter how terrifying it might feel. “Good night,” Steve said.

 

“Good night, sweetheart,” Tony murmured half-automatically, responding instinctively to the fondness in Steve’s face and voice, then bit the inside of his cheek.  But Steve didn't seem to mind—instead, his smile only grew.

 

“I’m going to brush my teeth,” he said. “Be back in a second.”

 

“Sure thing,” Tony told him.  He lay back against the pillows as Steve walked toward the bathroom, then pulled the blankets over himself and turned onto his side, curling one arm under the pillow to grip it close and closing his eyes.

 

He had a lot to think about.

 

He was glad he hadn’t gotten around to asking the question about sleeping closer in bed for a different reason now—this was going to be tough to think through as it was, and sleeping pressed up close against Steve after everything, when just touching Steve or being touched by him felt as all-encompassing and intense as it did to him right now, was a good way to scramble his brains completely, if Steve had wanted it. And if he didn’t want to, Tony knew he would have felt rejected despite his best efforts not to yearn after Steve’s presence that way, to wait for whatever Steve wanted, and his mood would have soured and dropped, also pretty effectively preventing him from thinking clearly. In that situation, he’d probably have agreed—to pain, to sensory deprivation or predicament bondage or whatever the hell Steve wanted—just for the sake of feeling close to Steve again, and maybe pleasing him with his body, his submission.  Since he didn’t think Steve would actually be pleased by that at all, it was better to just avoid that whole spiral.

 

Besides, Steve had asked him a very different question—he’d asked if Tony _wanted_ it. Of course, Tony could always lie, but . . . no. There was no way he was lying to Steve if he could avoid it.  Not right now. Not about this. Just the thought of it made him feel more than a little like he wanted to throw up.

 

He turned his face in toward the pillow and sighed. Which meant he had to figure out what the truth was, and then say it, then tell Steve, out loud, for real. Neither of those were the easiest things in the world.  But he owed Steve that much, that was for sure.

 

Tony knew he didn’t have the greatest idea of his own personal preferences for sex.  He’d always been willing to go with the flow, do whatever his partner seemed to get the most pleasure out of.  That in itself was so good, most of the time, that figuring out what he wanted the most just seemed kind of superfluous, plus more likely to frustrate him if he couldn’t get it.  He was of the school of thought that said if you wanted vanilla ice cream, French vanilla and chocolate vanilla swirl were both close enough to the target.  He knew that frustrated Steve sometimes, because Steve liked having ideas of where to shoot for, and sometimes liked to be guided, and having Tony say, “well, go to town,” left him feeling directionless, like he was just flailing around.  (Which, uh, he wasn’t.  Tony knew better than most people how little anything Steve did in the bedroom resembled flailing around.)

 

But Steve was right when he said that Tony’s preference, even with kinky stuff, wasn’t to be hurt.  Not really.  He could take it, for sure.  He’d taken it before, and pretty hard.  Not from Steve, but other partners he’d had.  Once Sunset had hit him with a whip until he’d cried, like a little bitch, her words. Not the proudest moment of his life, though he’d agreed to the whole thing.  But as humiliating as that memory was, he was a little bit proud of how hard he’d been able to take it other times without dissolving into tears like that. Indries had loved taking him past that point, though, breaking down his pride, until he couldn’t help but end up shaking and sniveling and gasping and broken down way past any control he’d had. That was one reason he didn't get into pain so much, in an intimate setting, anyway, he was pretty sure—what felt easy to endure with equanimity when he was gritting his teeth on the field seemed a million times harder to take when it was a lover with his or her hands on him. And it just didn’t feel that good. It never seemed to get to a point where it excited him, no matter how hard he tried to please, or push himself, or trick his body into enjoying it.

 

But now, with Steve—suddenly the idea sent waves of heat through him, made him shiver with the thought of it, in a way totally different from the desperate, self-destructive begging from before, and he had no idea why.  Maybe he really was just starved for affection from Steve, so that the thought of any kind of contact turned him on.  The thought of that possibility was purely humiliating.  But . . . no, it was different.  It wasn’t that when he thought of Steve touching him at all, in any way, it sent the same feelings of desperate, tingling desire through him, made him go hot all over, like thinking of what Steve had suggested did.  Like . . . thinking of Steve’s arms around him in bed made him feel trembling and warm and tender and bruised in his chest, overwhelmed and overemotional, but it didn’t twist at the pit of his stomach, didn’t tug at his groin, didn’t make him feel hot and dizzy.  So it couldn’t be simple deprivation, or anything, everything, else would be having the same effect, and it just wasn’t.  It was different. 

 

But was he crazy?  Why was he thinking of it so differently now that Steve had brought it up?

 

Maybe he really was going crazy. After everything that had happened, it would make a certain amount of sense.

 

Well, crazy for Steve?  There were worse things.  Maybe it wasn’t that big a change, after all.

 

Steve came back; Tony heard his steps on the floor, as always, surprisingly quiet for such a big man.  It surprised Tony when he felt Steve’s hand slide gently over Tony’s shoulder, in toward his spine, as Steve got into bed. It was the first time in a long while that, as far as Tony knew, they’d both been awake and aware for that sort of touch in bed.  Steve let his hand skim down and rest against one side of Tony’s spine, left his hand on his back, warm and heavy, for just a moment before he pulled it away and said, “G’night, Tony,” quietly, settling back onto his side.

 

“Good night,” Tony murmured in return, an acknowledgement.  He was proud of how even his voice sounded despite the emotions hot and tangled in his chest. He thought he wouldn’t be able to sleep, that he’d spend the whole night thinking over the question Steve had asked, but before he knew it, he was waking up with the sun on his face.

 

Steve was nowhere to be found, as usual, but when Tony rolled onto his back, his hand hit something that didn’t feel like the soft folds of sheet and blankets and he blinked, surprised, to find a sheet of paper laid against Steve’s pillow, a note in Steve’s neat, square handwriting. _Tony_ , it said on the top, folded over.  Tony smiled to himself—a real handwritten note, it was the little things where Steve was the most endearingly old-fashioned—and picked it up.

 

 _Tony,_ it started on the inside, too _, take your time on an answer to that question I asked.  I’ll see you tonight if the mission doesn’t go sideways, and if it does, I’ll see you later than that.  Don’t worry about having an answer for me the next time I see you._

_I never told you this, but one of the things I like best about sleeping beside you is how peaceful you look asleep when I’m getting up.  I hope you sleep well with me there.  I know I sure do._

_Take care._

_Yours, Steve._

 

Tony swallowed, his chest feeling a little tight and his throat oddly dry, and swiped his thumb over Steve’s signature. _Yours_ , he thought.

 

He slept so much better with Steve beside him. He did.  Every time.  To know that it was the same for Steve . . . that he was getting something out of this, too, after all, that he did feel the same way Tony did, about at least one thing . . . .

 

The light coming into the room felt brighter. Tony got up, left the note carefully on his desk, and went to take a shower.  He couldn’t help smiling to himself, just a little.

 

It was good, to have that reassurance, because he had plenty to think about.  If he had woken up just to concentrate on that, well, he could see himself getting pretty worked up over it.  It was good to have a reminder of everything else Steve had said.  That he’d still want to be with Tony, no matter what his answer was to Steve’s question ended up being.  Tony was still working on believing that Steve still wanted to be with him, but remembering those words still made him feel a little warm, from the inside out, and it wasn’t a bad feeling, not at all.

 

The hot water pounding down over his shoulders and back was soothing, as always, and he crossed his arms against the wall and thought about Steve pushing him into this wall and holding him there, holding him still, the night before, heat pooling in his groin at the memories. Steve’s blue eyes dark with desire, the feel of his hands on Tony’s wrists, his hips, controlling his movements, his pace, the moment when Tony had stopped struggling for his own pleasure, stared into Steve’s eyes and let himself go, and Steve had so easily held him up with the leverage of his body and his hand around Tony’s wrists, tenderly bracing that arm to shield Tony’s face from the spray even as he coaxed Tony to move at the pace Steve set with the other.  Tony’s cock twitched, but he ignored it; he wanted to think more than he wanted to get himself off.

 

He’d known for a long time that he had desires that tended toward the more submissive side of things.  He ran his hands back over his hair, thought about Steve’s hands there, and blew his breath out explosively.  Distracting, God.

 

He knew that there were plenty of people out there who were more submissive, or more entirely submissive than he was, some people who didn’t like taking on the other role at all, and he did, he really liked it, taking charge, with Steve, when Steve wanted to submit, he _loved_ it, it was some of the most fulfilled he’d ever felt, sexually.  But there was still that desire in him, to let go sometimes.  Sometimes it was almost an ache.  And Steve was better than anyone he’d ever met at somehow knowing when he was aching like that, twisted up and tangled and heavy in his chest, and reaching out, and taking control from Tony, pushing him until everything came apart in him all at once and not letting him fall, and the ache loosened and was gone.  But they usually didn’t . . . play.  Not how Tony had come to understand the term.  When Steve subbed, he and Tony played, there was a beginning and an end to the scene, it was bounded and clear.  And he and Steve had done it like that.  Tony had done it like that plenty of times in his life.  But so often with Steve, during sex, something would happen, Steve would push, and Tony would let him, and the next thing he knew he was blinking and things felt very slow and soft.  And Steve had him, he had never once doubted that Steve had him when he felt like that. Never.  It was usually like how things had been in the shower, they just slid into it.  It happened with Steve bottoming sometimes, too, Tony would see him fuzzing out, his gaze going open and vulnerable, the language of his body loosening under Tony’s hands, but, well, less often.  Tony wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

 

With any other partner, that would have scared him more than it did with Steve.  Somehow, he wasn’t afraid that Steve would take that openness he showed him in bed and think less of him for it.  Maybe it was because Steve was so willing with his own submission, maybe that made it easier to trust in that with him.  Maybe it was that they’d fought together, led the team together, lived together, or maybe it was just simply that Steve was the most trustworthy individual Tony had ever known.  Whatever it was, it had always been so easy to let Steve take his wrists, or push his head down, or listen when he said, so low and even, “No, Tony, let me.”

 

Tony squirted shampoo into his palm, ran it back into his hair, lathering it up with his fingers.  All of that stuff, it was—or it felt—simple.  Power exchange, he supposed he’d have called it if he had to put a name to it, or one that wasn’t just _Steve’s eyes pulling me in, his mouth at the crux of my neck, the sound of his voice, letting him take me, lifting me off the ground like I don’t weigh anything at all, the feel of his hands on my skin_.  Tony leaned his head against the tiled side of the shower and closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, concentrating on the coolness of the tile against his cheek.

 

In some ways, it wasn’t simple at all, but it felt simple, because it came down to basic truths—Tony trusted Steve. He trusted him to take his weight, not to mind if Tony leaned on him, just a little bit, for a while, if Tony let Steve take over Tony’s pleasure instead of just concentrating on pleasing Steve himself and not to mind or resent Tony’s lack of focus on him, to know what he was doing, to be there, trusted the look he got in his eyes, of concentration, of pleasure in Tony’s pleasure, of affection.  If Tony let go, nothing bad would happen, Steve would be happy, he wouldn’t blame him for it.  Tony could give himself to Steve for a while and Steve wouldn’t wonder why the hell Tony was bothering to give him something so flawed and unworthy, he’d be happy for the gift.  If Steve told Tony to close his eyes and wait for whatever Steve wanted to do to him, nothing terrible would happen if he did it.

 

Tony wiped shampoo out of his eyes with his arm, took a deep breath, and went back to washing it out of his hair. Of course, that had been before. He hadn’t been sure if Steve would ever want that again—but then Steve had pushed him into the wall of the shower last night and taken his weight, and then afterward, asked if Tony had been serious about wanting to be hurt.  Clearly, Steve still wanted it.  And last night had felt . . . it had felt the same as it always had.  Steve’s eyes hadn’t been any harder, more angry. There hadn’t been an edge there where there hadn’t been one before.  He hadn’t left bruises on Tony’s wrists, or slammed his head back against the tile, had even slid a protective hand behind his head for a moment when it knocked back. Tony looked down at his own wrist, thinking about how easily Steve’s big hand encircled it.  He had slender wrists and ankles for a man his size and weight, certainly, but Steve also just had incredibly broad hands. When Steve pinned Tony down to the mat, or in bed, or in, say, the shower, it was always incredible to realize just how strong he really was.  How little Tony could move against his hold, and how helpless Steve could make him, could hold him, with that near-superhuman strength.

 

Tony had had less pleasant reminders, of course. He’d had that strength turned on him more than once, times he could remember, and times he couldn’t. He finished with his hair, turning his head up into the spray to wash it clean, then started on his conditioner, the rest of his routine.

 

But somehow that made it all the more incredible that Steve still touched him so gently.  Even now.  Even if it was frustrating, sometimes, because surely that carefulness, that extreme gentleness, was starting to be a bit much for both of them?  Maybe that was why Tony had slid into it so quickly with him the night before—Steve had still been gentle, but he’d hoisted him up without much ado of any kind, pushed him around to where he’d wanted him, treated him firmly, if not roughly.  Right now, Tony thought he wanted Steve’s honesty more than anything.  Roughness and all.  He knew full well how hypocritical that was of him after everything he’d done to break this between them, but that didn’t change how it felt, the desperation to know what Steve really thought, what he was really feeling.

 

Even if that honesty meant Steve hurting him, Tony wondered?  He wondered if that might feel more honest than anything.  He made himself imagine it.  Steve didn’t strike him as the type to go in for whips, so would he use the toys they already had, if they did this?  They had quite a few floggers already, mostly ones that Tony had commissioned so he could use them on Steve, because if anyone had a pain kink, it was Steve, Jesus Christ, but a few of them he’d used on Tony before, and that hadn’t felt . . . awful. It had felt pretty damn good, actually, but he’d known Steve had been going almost ridiculously easy on him, purposefully not letting it hurt at all, even a little bit, even in the thud of the pressure against his skin.  Paddles, a crop or two, one with feathers on the end for teasing, clamps, and most of which Tony had always been too chicken to actually use.  He knew Steve _liked_ it, that wasn’t the question, it was just—seeing him flinch, hearing him let out actual noises of pain, noises Tony was all too familiar with from years on the field and actual injuries, because of something he was doing, seeing marks rise on Steve’s perfect, resilient skin—it made Tony’s hands shake, his stomach knot up, made him feel sick and guilty.  Maybe if he himself had had more fun with scenes that involved pain that would be easier, Tony reflected suddenly.  He’d know better that it wasn’t _really_ hurting Steve—would it work like that?  Or was it just that Tony wasn’t suited to it, and nothing he could do would change that?

 

He really had no idea what Steve would go for. When he’d begged him so desperately before, he’d had no idea what he’d wanted Steve to do, what he’d been thinking he would do.  Hurt him, like Sunset (or Indries, or . . . well, anyway, it didn’t matter, other people) had hurt him, he guessed.  Whatever that entailed, until he was broken, wrecked and jumbled, at Steve’s feet, gasping and messy and pathetic despite all his control, all the toughness he tried so hard to cling to.  Tony was pretty sure he’d just been picturing Steve roughing him up barehanded.  He had a good imagination, and he was vividly, mathematically aware of what Steve’s bare hands could do to his body with even half the force they could exert, even without Steve being serious about hurting him, even with Steve consciously not inflicting lasting damage.

 

Even if he hadn’t been able to picture it for himself, he’d had a few fun little demonstrations lately, hadn’t he? Yeah, he had a pretty damn good idea of what Steve could do, even holding back.

 

Tony sighed, and admitted to himself that if Steve wanted to hurt him, there was a part of him, a big part of him, that wanted nothing more than to take whatever he dished out, because he adored Steve in a soul-deep, complicated way that hurt sometimes all on its own, and if Steve wanted to hurt him he wanted to be hurt.  And he knew that was fucked up, even he knew that, and nothing to bring into a scene, ever.  If he did this— _God, was he really seriously thinking about doing this_ —that couldn’t be why.  It wasn’t going to be why.  But it was there, and . . . and if he was going to do this, if he was even thinking about it, he couldn’t deny it.  It was there and it was self-destructive and Steve would hate it. Tony knew Steve would hate it, if he knew.

 

He thought Steve might already know. The way he looked at Tony sometimes . . . and, well, Tony had seen the footage of their battle in New York, during the superhero Civil War.  Steve wasn’t an idiot, and Tony wasn’t either.  Even without remembering it, he knew what had been going on with him there, in his own head.  He wondered if Steve knew, that was all.  If Steve did know, he’d have done exactly what he’d been doing, and never mentioned it even once, so . . . there you were.  Could go either way.

 

He trusted Steve anyway, Tony thought as he finished up in the shower, soaping himself up and washing himself off, shaving, moving mostly on autopilot while his thoughts circled themselves. No matter what. Sure, Steve had punched him a few times, sure, they fought, they didn’t always get along. But it wasn’t that, it was that—Steve was always honest about when he lashed out, he never hurt Tony for no reason, he was never cruel. He was always _real_ , and he would always, always be fair. He never pushed Tony just to see how far it would take to make him actually cry, and there was no way he ever would.  He didn’t play games with Tony’s head, and Tony sure couldn’t claim that in return. He chuckled a little wryly at the thought that he would rather be hurt by Steve than kissed by a few of the lovers he’d had in his lifetime, because it would hurt less in the long run, but, well, it was true.  He wondered what Steve would have said, about him—how Steve fell in the area of trust right now. Tony had never been as . . . as honest with him, as trustworthy as Steve was.  Not that that was a big surprise, considering the two of them, he figured. Steve was so perfectly honest, and Tony . . . well.

 

He stepped out of the shower, toweling himself off, and sighed.  He was no closer to figuring this out, not really, and now he had to get ready for work, and focus, not let his mind wander, obsessing over this thing and trying to take it apart.   He brushed his towel back over his hair, rubbing it roughly, then let it settle around his shoulders, letting his reflection in the mirror catch his eye for a moment.

 

He had still dark circles under his eyes, but they were finally starting to fade, and he was still underweight, but it wasn’t as bad, as obvious, as it had been.  At least the lingering bruises and scrapes had finally all healed up. He wasn’t going to have to use makeup to hide the most obvious effects of his exhaustion or the bruises today.  But the biggest difference was his eyes—they looked different, brighter, more alive than they’d looked in a long time. 

 

He gave himself a wry, self-mocking smirk. “You’re a sap, Stark,” he said. Steve kissed him a few times and touched his back, left him a note, and he was walking on air. That easy.  But it was true, there was nothing he could do about it, and he’d pass muster for now, anyway.  He turned his mind to his work and started to get dressed.  He hesitated, but he slipped the note Steve had left him into his breast pocket before he left.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony really did do his best to focus on work. Steve’s question only intruded on his thoughts a few times over the course of the day, along with the vague, low-level worry for Steve that always hovered in the back of the mind whenever he was out on a mission that didn’t involve Tony. He knew Steve could handle it, of course, that he could take care of himself, but he also knew, better than anyone, that sometimes things just happened, even to the very best of them. So.  He worried.  But he never let himself dwell on it, and it was that night, down in his workroom, watching projected models revolve on his screen (there was no reason to call it quits early and head up to bed, since Steve wasn’t going to be there until late even if he got in, and every reason to finish these models as soon as possible, so if Steve did get in, he could lie there in bed with him with a clear conscience, or clear enough, anyway—and wouldn’t _that_ be a novel feeling, he thought with self-directed bitterness), that he put his head down on his crossed arms while they formulated and let Steve’s question float back up to the top of his mind.

 

 The hours he’d had to cool down over the course of the day, the time he’d spent not thinking about it, hadn’t magically given him any sort of answer, not that he’d expected them to.  It still tugged at his stomach with both nerves and a hot, strange, deep heat whenever he thought about it. Combined with the warmth Steve had shown him the night before, the note he had left him, which was now in the pocket of Tony’s slacks, keeping him company, and he was stubbornly not feeling stupid for that, it was enough to keep butterflies in his stomach and knots in his throat.  He didn’t know what to think.

 

He buried his head in his arms for a moment. _Okay, Stark_ , he told himself.  _You have a strongly visceral reaction to the idea, that’s one piece of data.  Positive or negative?_

 

Well, his dick and general related functions thought it was a positive, that was for damn sure.  But his dick had been generally proven to be a complete idiot, so he wasn’t trusting that by itself.  But why was that, anyway, why was it making him so hot?  The idea of it had never once affected him like that before. When Sunset had suggested it he’d just felt well, scared, and a little cold, clammy with nervous sweat. And he had been just as physically passionate about Sunset then as he was about Steve now; he still remembered how that had felt, the worship that had fluttered in his stomach and flushed his skin whenever he’d touched her.  With Indries it had felt a little more exciting at first . . . his mouth twisted at the memory, at how that excitement had soured, turned to a leaden ball in his stomach, then that same clammy fear, only worse, more overwhelming as time went on.  He was such an idiot. When was he going to learn, anyway?

 

He wasn’t sure if he was just a wuss for this stuff, or what.  He just knew that with Rumiko and Steve, nothing had ever gone off like that on him. Well, things had, in his head. There had been times when he was . . . afraid, that sick feeling in his stomach—but it hadn’t been the same, not at all . . . .

 

But Rumiko had never hurt him, not even when they did this kind of thing, the power play, even the bondage. She hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in pain, for herself or for anyone else.  They’d played different sorts of games.  She’d been . . . fun, and if he’d been shaking and scared for no damn reason, she’d just . . . shift into something else without ever talking about it or even seeming to notice, until he was smiling again, with her, because it had been impossible not to smile with her, and they’d never talked about it, much.  Rumiko hadn’t been any more eager to talk about stuff like that than he was.

 

He still missed her.  It still hurt, so much, sometimes.  And it had been his fault, all his fault. What right did he have to mourn her? She’d deserved so much better from him, than him, after all . . . .

 

But that just meant that he didn’t really . . . know what he was doing here, or what was going on with him right now. Steve was basically an isolated instance.  As usual. Tony had spaced out for Rhodey a few times, but that had hardly even been about sex as much as . . . as well, as trust, and he had the feeling that if Rhodey even had the slightest inkling Tony wanted pain to be involved, not that he had wanted it, but hypothetically speaking, if he had, he’d have freaked out profoundly and permanently and never, ever even considered doing such a thing ever again.  And Rhodey, Ty, and Steve were the only men he had experience with in this department, assuming gender was a factor.  And Tony didn’t have a clue what to think of Ty, or about him, these days.

 

Not that he had experience with a ton of men. He sighed at himself. _Some playboy you are_ , he told himself.  _You don’t even know what you like in bed, and you’re more than halfway in the closet on a good day._ That was something Ty might have said to him, in a mood, speaking of, and it had become one of the major ironies of Tony’s life that good old New York boy Steve Rogers, born 1920-whatever, was about a hundred times more okay with liking men than Tony had ever managed to be.

 

And he was feeling sorry for himself, and he’d been feeling _good_ , all day. His hand dropped, brushed the note in his pocket, and he smiled a little, propping his chin on his arm again, because, well, things were looking up with Steve, and when was the last time he could say _that_ and be honest about it? And Steve had said it didn’t matter, what answer he gave him.  So there was that.  For once—for once, he hadn’t managed to break something for good.  He still had a chance at this.  Somehow.  For whatever reason.  Even without . . . any of this.

 

But the question remained, a question he had to figure out, if he was going to be really honest with Steve—what was it that made his reaction to this when Steve brought it up, his reaction to _Steve_ , so different from every other response he’d ever had to the idea?  Aside from Steve being Steve. Which was probably the answer, of course.  Tony just wasn’t satisfied with that—it didn’t explain anything, except that Steve was wonderful, and he couldn’t put that into quantifiable data points, either. He just was, and the reasons were infinite, too many to list, though Tony tried sometimes, in his sappier moments. He had a deeply buried datafile where he was into the thousands of points listed.  But that didn’t get him any further along to an answer.

 

Well, okay.  The fear wasn’t gone.  He _was_ afraid of the idea of setting up a scene where the express purpose was some kind of pain, when it came right down to it. And, on top of that, if he was being horribly, humiliatingly, crawlingly honest, he was afraid of Steve hurting him, specifically.  Particularly . . . at that very moment.  He did still vividly remember being knocked flat on his back, seeing stars, the way that had felt, his skull smacking into the floor, the way he hadn’t even hurt at first from the shock of the blow, vividly, even now.  It wasn’t that he somehow didn’t feel the fear, purely physical, coiling in the bit of his stomach, at all because Steve was involved, it wasn’t anything like that.  It was there, deep down inside, making his stomach twist and flip at the very thought. It was just . . . that it was different. If Steve were going to punch him, like that, well . . . he would punch him just like that.  He wouldn’t go about it in some kind of tricky, elaborate way, bring their relationship into it, just to make Tony hurt.  So there was no way Tony was even going to bring that incident up. It wasn’t relevant to whatever they were going to be doing together, not at all.  Even if he did still fear that kind of pain.

 

Besides, he’d earned that one.

 

And that was the exact train of thought he wasn’t involving in this, c’mon, Tony, quit it.

 

But it was hard not to think it. Not to think like that. After all, wasn’t that what this was all about?  Not punishment, not exactly, but . . . something like that, something . . . to do with that. Taking what had happened and . . . doing something else with it.  Doing what with it?  Tony wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but . . . but yeah, changing it, somehow. Maybe.

 

Would he feel better if Steve hurt him over what had happened?  What he’d done? Well, probably. Not the loveliest of truths, honestly, but there it was.  But he wasn’t going to use Steve like that, not again.  He wasn’t even going to try.  This—this was about Steve’s thing.  Whatever that was. Tony, if he did this, he would take whatever Steve dished out because it was . . . it was what Steve dished out, and because he wanted it, honestly, because it made him feel liquid and warm inside and his groin ache and his face feel hot.  He wouldn’t go into it because he _didn’t_ want it and wouldn’t enjoy it and he wanted Steve to make him hurt until the perverse urge to drag himself over the coals in expiation was gone, and he felt sickly, horribly, better.  He wasn’t going to use Steve to purge the ache, the sick hollowness of guilt and the self-loathing that crept around and settled in the empty corners of his being.  He wasn’t. He just wasn’t. But it was good to know about himself, though, either way.  At least that way he could guard against it, stop this from becoming . . . that.

 

Was that . . . what Steve was thinking? That Tony wanted this? That it would make him feel better if he used Steve to punish himself?  Was he just trying to reach out to Tony this way, please him somehow? Play into that role of punisher to placate Tony’s guilt?  To _let_ Tony use him like that?  The thought made Tony’s stomach tighten and cramp anxiously, with misery, because that was just what Tony was trying to avoid, and if that was what Steve was doing, how would he know, and once Tony gave him his answer Steve would be trapped by whatever Tony said, and—

 

Probably better not to try to figure that one out right at this moment, Tony told himself, cutting himself off. Better to just leave it for now. Let Steve tell him in his own time what he was going for here.  Stop trying to psychoanalyze him.  Steve never thanked him for that.  Trust Steve to know what he was doing, and to have thought about that aspect of things before he’d started this.  He’d said he’d thought about it, after all.  Tony had to trust him, let him make his own decisions, or none of this would mean anything.

 

But it was hard not to try and figure it out. It was what he did, after all, figure things out.

 

Besides, it wasn’t like this was all about him, here, he told himself with wry, self-deprecating irony.  Steve’s reasons for asking probably had more to do with Steve. Tony wanted them to, he realized. He, well, he wanted to feel like he was giving Steve something he wanted if he submitted for him this way. If Steve was going to be hurting him like this, he wanted him to enjoy it.

 

Would Steve enjoy it, he wondered? Would he enjoy some implements more than others, enjoy seeing Tony’s skin turning red under whatever he used, the sounds he made, would he experiment to see what got what kind of response from Tony, what made him squirm or maybe even jump or yell (or cry, that nasty part of Tony’s mind suggested, can you handle that, the humiliation of that, crying in front of Steve with pure pain, tears running down your face and clogging up your nose and turning you into a disgusting, soggy mess? You try so hard to be _strong_ for him, and brave, and make him proud of you, you stupid idiot, do you really want him to see you a sniveling wreck?)—

 

Tony shivered, linked his hands in front of him and stared at them.  Would he cry in front of Steve?  Steve had, probably, a better idea of what Tony could take, physically, than anyone else alive. They’d trained together for years, and once they’d gotten together, those training sessions had become even more . . . well, intimate was the only word for it, but that made it sound sexual in a way they hadn’t been.  Well, they had been sometimes, he reflected with a pale, wry grin for himself at the memories, but that was a separate thing, not part of the normal routine at all. But after they’d been together Steve had seemed to feel no compunction about touching Tony anywhere on his body to correct a move, or in holding him while he strained to complete a move in a way that let Tony know that Steve could feel _exactly_ how much or how little trouble he was having and the strengths and weaknesses of his muscles, and there was the intimate knowledge of every inch of Tony’s body that Steve didn’t hesitate to use sometimes to bring him to the mat, jabs of his thumb against places that were particularly sensitive to pressure, the knowledge that his ankles were a little weak, and exactly how far he could push him before Tony actually started to hurt.  Steve had never once actually hurt Tony in training or even sparring.  Not even once. It seemed insane, impossible, considering how closely they’d worked together at times and the things they’d pushed themselves to do and how painful some of those could be (and had been), but there it was. Steve knew every inch of Tony’s body; he was the one who brought up that the RT’s respiratory systems needed to be revised for how Tony got short of breath thirty seconds faster than he’d used to, who always knew if Tony needed electrolyte water or a Power Bar after a workout before he did himself, or if food would make him feel queasy. Steve could, conceivably, easily, push him to the edge of what he could take and keep him there until Tony was about to break, and then stop, without even having to plan it out much. He knew Tony’s body, its responses, inside and out.

 

It was actually reassuring.  Because he knew Steve would never want to break him entirely. If he had wanted that, well, Tony had already given himself up to him, in more than one way.  Steve wasn’t the type for long, drawn-out revenge. Tony would already be as broken as Steve could manage if Steve had wanted it; Steve would never have approached it in some strange under-the-table way.  It was one of the best, most reassuring things about him.

 

Tony rubbed his hands back over his eyes, back into his hair, and thought about the stinging, knotted tails of the pink and black flogger Steve had wheedled Tony into getting made to use on Steve, as if the pink would somehow distract Tony from how goddamn _mean_ it was, enough to get him to use it on Steve, even though it sure as hell hadn’t worked and he’d never been able to work up the courage—how that would feel against his shoulders, or if Steve would paddle him until his ass and thighs felt raw and hot and it hurt to sit down. How creative would Steve get? Tony swallowed. Steve could be a pretty creative guy, when he was thinking about it.

 

The models were done formulating. Tony swallowed again, made himself focus on finishing his work.  He ended up deeply immersed in it for hours, other thoughts driven solidly to the back of his head, and he wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep, just that it was after he’d pretty much up tied off his work on that project and moved onto the next on his list that had needed attention, and that he woke up to Steve’s hands gripping his lightly and warm breath in his ear.

 

“Boo,” Steve said, low and gentle not quite against the whorl of Tony’s ear, and easily caught Tony around the chest, moving with him so easily it wasn’t quite fair as he flailed awake with a rough noise and a sputter.  Steve let go of his hands and curled his arms around Tony’s chest, nuzzling into the hair at the top of his head and placing a kiss on the crown of it.  “Knew I’d find you down here,” he said, while Tony was still staring blankly into the screensavers of his computer screens, muzzily fighting through sleep to try and process, cope with, the warmth of Steve’s arms around him, the playful, strong circle of that hold, everything about the way Steve held him, and the tender, painful warmth it roused in his own chest.

 

“You did?” he said, stupidly.

 

“Yep,” Steve said, cradling Tony lightly and easily, undemanding, back against his chest.  “You assumed that if I was coming back tonight I’d be in late, so you’d try to work as long as you could while I wasn’t around to miss you in bed, and figured that way I wouldn’t bother you and feel badly if I came in so late I just fell into bed myself without looking for you.”

 

“Mmm,” Tony admitted.

 

Steve loosed one hand and ran his freed fingers back through Tony’s hair, gently brushing it off his forehead. His hand felt very warm, and heavy over the crown of Tony’s head.  Tony trembled with the affection; his throat felt tight and hot, and he didn’t know what to do.  “So tell me,” Steve said, grinning over the top of Tony’s head into the reflection in the screen saver, Tony could see it even though he hadn’t turned his head to look back at him, “Am I right?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony admitted, with a little bit of bad grace, maybe.  “There were plenty of other reasons, but yeah.”  Mainly the thought that if Steve hadn’t wanted to see him, after all, he hadn’t had to, if Tony was down here, and Tony didn’t know, he wasn’t sure at all what Steve was up to with him or what he was feeling, he might have wanted the out, still, even after last night, and the questions he’d asked.  Maybe especially then.  Maybe he’d regretted it.  And Tony had been putting some of his work off to go to bed around the same time as Steve every night, to make that one gesture that he knew how to make, and he’d seized his chance to work as late as he normally did.  He had a lot to catch up on, anyway, with everything that had happened, and how long he’d been out of commission.  He turned around in the circle of Steve’s arms, steeling himself, Steve’s affection giving him a sudden reckless boldness, and pressed his face against Steve’s chest, feeling his own breath hitching in his throat as he did it. Steve’s hand curled into his hair, held him suddenly close against his chest and shoulder, tugging him even closer, and Tony couldn’t breathe for a moment.  Steve felt so warm.  “What time is it?” he finally managed through a thick throat, and his voice sounded hoarse even to his own ears.

 

“Too late,” Steve said ruefully. His fingers tangled further into Tony’s hair, stroked gently against his skin, beneath his ears, along his neck, making Tony shudder, every inch of his skin tingling with a helpless flush with each touch.  “About four in the morning. The mission ran long, just like I thought it might, but hey, at least I’m back tonight.  Or kind of.  This morning, anyway.”

 

Tony nodded.  “At least,” he agreed in a low voice.  “I’m glad.  I’d have worried if—” but he broke off, rapidly, swallowed the words.  After everything he’d done, did he even deserve to—would Steve welcome that kind of almost domestic concern, too much and a little foolish coming from Tony of all people, or would he think he was still being too controlling, too high-handed, to worry like that, like it was somehow any of his business what Steve did out there, what decisions he made, or like Steve couldn’t handle himself, and what was he doing talking about that, anyway, he didn’t ever want Steve to think he didn’t want him to—he should have tried to sell it as a joke, at least, but he was still so sleepy and dull, dizzy and hot and off-balance with Steve’s encircling arms and the way he was touching him, the warmth and strength of him against his chest, beneath his head, and he felt like he couldn’t get his balance at all, but that wasn’t really an excuse for being this slow and out of it—

 

“I know, you worry,” Steve said, affection and softness in his voice, and he traced his fingers over Tony’s jaw, along the hinge of it.  “I worry about you, too, you know.”  He gave a gentle little laugh and scratched gently at the back of Tony’s head, ruffling up his hair. “Maybe not quite as _much_.  You tie yourself into damn knots, Shellhead.”

 

“You’re overstating things,” Tony grumbled, huffily, to disguise how he was suddenly hot in the face and those flutters were all through his body, and his eyes prickled and chest stung. Steve was being so affectionate, and he didn’t know how to handle it.  He could feel himself shaking, all over, and wrenched himself away from Steve, because he didn’t want him to feel it, too.

 

“Tony,” Steve said, suddenly, as Tony pulled back, and he spun Tony’s chair back around and put both hands on the desk behind him, trapping him.  Tony had just enough time to gulp, startled, and then Steve surprised him still further by kneeling in front of him and putting his hands on either side of Tony’s chair. “Too much, too fast?” he said, seriously, his eyes searching and dark now, and his mouth softly grave, but his face looked open, not closed or cold.  He gave a rueful, almost trembling little smile himself.  “I’m sorry.  I guess I got a little carried away.  I’ve been missing you, being with you, like this, and you were so . . .” he faltered . . . “willing last night.  You responded to me, at least, and I guess I took that and ran with it.” He pulled his hands, back, away. “I’m sorry.  I went too far.”

 

“No,” Tony managed to choke out. His chest felt heavy and tight and ached even more sharply than it had before, throbbing and painful beneath his sternum.  “You, uh. You didn’t.  I was just startled, that’s all.  And I was . . . asleep, so I just . . . .” but he ran out of words, not sure what he was going to say, or how to say it in a way that didn’t sound like complaining or stupid, faltering weakness, and let himself trail off. He’d just been overwhelmed, and off balance, and he still didn’t know how to act around Steve, these days, especially not with him being warm, and teasing him so fondly, and touching him, like nothing had ever happened between them, and . . . .

 

“Sorry,” Steve said again, still kneeling, still looking into his face.  Tony smiled at him, and was surprised how easily it came.

 

“Don’t be,” he said.  “Not like I mind it when you wake me up, honey.”

 

Steve brightened, face kindling into smiling warmth at that, and Tony couldn’t help the warmth that rose in him as well in response, the way he smiled back at Steve even more widely, and he wouldn’t let his eyes drop, even as the same old guilt in him rose and wanted him to, tried to pull them down and away.  Steve leaned forward, crossed his arms across Tony’s knees and looked up at him, curled easily over his arms over Tony’s knees and where he knelt himself in his booted feet, still in his uniform, his hair tousled from the cowl he’d pushed back to bare his head and curling around at the edges, over his ears and over his forehead to fall in pale gold tangles over his eyes.  It had grown out a bit long in the past few months, and now was disordered, sticking up in tufts and tangles, instead of neatly brushed and coiffed the way Steve usually kept it.  His eyes were earnest and very blue, even as his smile faded a bit, though without dying away entirely.  Tony couldn’t keep himself from bringing both hands down and resting them on top of Steve’s head, combing his fingers slowly through the tousled strands.  Steve smiled a little more, and his fair skin pinked slightly with a low flush as he leaned into the touch of Tony’s hands. “You don’t?” he murmured, his eyes bright.

 

“’Course not,” Tony said, and gave a laugh to cover it that even to him sounded uncertain.  They looked at each other a moment.

 

“Mmm,” Steve said, and turned his head to press a kiss to Tony’s palm without taking his eyes from Tony’s. Tony swallowed, and his hands felt hot and shook.

 

“Why?” he blurted suddenly, then immediately regretted it, looked down, hot in the face and feeling trapped and stupid, but he couldn’t seem to pull away from Steve, either.

 

Steve’s brows drew together, and he frowned. “Why . . .” he prompted.

 

“Why are you being so . . . so . . .” Tony didn’t know how to describe it.  “Like this with me,” he finally said.  “Affectionate, and kind, and . . . and warm, all of a sudden.”

 

Steve’s frown deepened, but the soft openness from before didn’t leave his mouth, even as it settled into that frown and turned downwards.  “Why, do I need a reason?” he said quietly, and his hand opened against Tony’s leg and moved to rub gently up and down over the top of his thigh.  Tony shuddered helplessly under the touch.

 

“I’d like one,” Tony said, “it’d help all this make sense,” and he hadn’t meant to sound as desperate as he had, and more than a little forlorn, he could admit it as much as he hated it, he really hadn’t, but it had come out that way all the same, and he scowled at it, castigating himself for being an idiot, for not having better control, for sounding so emotional and desperate and—

 

But Steve’s face softened, and then he sighed. “I guess that’d ease your mind, wouldn’t it?” he murmured.

 

Tony shrugged and did look down now. “No,” he said, “really, forget it, it’s not a big deal, it doesn’t mean anything—I, I’ve muddled along this far, I don’t need anything,” but oh no, he hadn’t meant that to sound even half as bitter as it had, but when he thought about everything he’d done, how badly he’d hurt Steve, screwed things up with him—

 

“Tony,” Steve said, started, his eyes very serious now, and his hand settled over Tony’s knee, rubbing gently just over the joint, his hand warm even through Tony’s soft, torn, stained old jeans, but Tony couldn’t wait for him to finish now, couldn’t bear to.

 

“I just don’t know why you’d even _bother_ with this,” he burst out with heavy, thick self-directed bitterness, his voice harsh even in his own ears, “with me, I can’t imagine why you’d want to, after everything, and I just—what have I ever given you that was worth it, any of it?”  He could hear his own heart beating hard in his ears, after that, and his throat hurt.

  
“Tony,” Steve said, more firmly, more quellingly, his voice somewhere between the warmer, more affectionate tone of Tony’s boyfriend and the commanding tones of Cap, and he squeezed both Tony’s legs, just above his knees. “Quiet down.”

 

Tony was trembling, and he felt empty and hollow, wet with cold sweat, dizzy, but in a very different, cold, almost faint, gray sort of way now compared to the warm, buoyant lightheadedness he’d felt earlier. He let his hands slide down to the back of Steve’s neck and rest there, loosely linked, and stared at them without really seeing them, not even noticing the way they were shaking just slightly. His throat and mouth felt very dry, all of a sudden, and it was easy to obey Steve’s order, because he really didn’t know what to say, and his throat had dried up so entirely he doubted he could speak even if he’d wanted to.

 

Steve just sat there, looking up at him, for a moment, and then he leaned up, straightening on his knees wordlessly, and rested both hands on Tony’s shoulders, warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, leaned forward to press a slow, lingering kiss to his forehead, soft and warm and damp with his breath, one hand shifting to cup the nape of Tony’s neck, palm clasping there warm and firm.  He rubbed there, gently, just for a moment, letting his mouth linger on Tony’s forehead, then curled both arms around his shoulders and hugged him, simple and sure.  Tony heard himself make a choking noise, going helplessly rigid and stupid in Steve’s arms, but Steve just made a soft, reassuring sound, not shushing him, and hugged him tighter. Tony couldn’t help it, couldn’t resist that hold, he sagged helplessly into it, not even really hugging Steve back, just collapsing like someone had cut his power to let his forehead rest on Steve’s shoulder, shuddering, still feeling hazed and empty and hollow and lost, and Steve made another quiet, considering, sympathetic noise and rubbed his back a little.  They stayed there for another few moments, and then Steve linked his arms around Tony’s back, letting the hug loosen but not moving away, apparently content to support Tony’s weight the way he was.

 

“It’s like this,” he said, in a quiet, even voice after a long few moments of Tony gasping into his shoulder, his hands still curled against the back of Steve’s neck and shaking, and feeling terrible and just faded and distant enough not to be furious with himself for this, not yet. Steve kept talking, big warm hands still gently smoothing their way down Tony’s back.  “After, sure, I was still angry.  But there you were, and there I was, and it felt like I had a choice, because anything else would be unfair, would leave you there, stuck in the middle.  I could see if you still wanted me and try and get you back, or I could be angry with you, but I wasn’t going to do both.  And I wanted you.”

 

“It—it’s not that easy,” Tony finally managed vaguely. It felt very hard to get his thoughts in order, then get them out of his mouth.  But they were true, and he wasn’t sure why Steve was acting like they weren’t.  “You can’t just . . . stop being angry because you decide it’s unfair.  Or because you don’t want to be anymore.  It doesn’t work like that.”

 

Steve sighed, but didn’t let go of him, and didn’t stop stroking his back.  “No,” he said. “True.  But I can’t stop loving you just because I’m angry, either.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony said, choking again on the words.

 

“Damn it, Tony,” Steve said, abrupt passion in his own voice, checked and low and yet still blazing.  “Of all the things you choose to apologize for.” Tony flinched, couldn’t help it. “Well, I’m not,” Steve said, still passionate, holding him close, arms linking up more firmly around his back.  “God, I wouldn’t trade it for anything, you know that?”

 

“Why?” Tony gasped out, trying to push Steve away, suddenly, straightening up, his face feeling furiously hot as shame returned to him in a flooding wave of crawling humiliation.  “Just look at me, I’m a wreck—”

 

“You’re half-asleep and under a lot of strain right now,” Steve said, and took his arms, smiling a little, wry and soft, almost coaxingly, but more private than that.  “Hey.  Hey. I’m not about to hold it against you.”

 

It was something he’d said before, when Tony had made a fool of himself.  It was something he’d said the first disastrous time Tony had asked to be hurt. Tony couldn’t quite catch his breath. “I collapsed all over you,” he said, hunching his shoulders and shoving his arms under his armpits, across his chest. “Fuck.  What a disgrace.  I mean, _look_ at me—”

 

“I’m not about to stand for anyone calling you that, Tony Stark,” Steve said, with mild danger in his voice. “You’re my guy, and anyone who calls you anything like that is going to answer to me.”

 

“Seems to me I have plenty of that to do, anyway,” Tony said without even trying to soften the words.

 

“That so?” Steve asked.  “Seems to me we talked about it already.  You gave me your reasons straight and made no apologies except for lying.  I remember something along the lines of you telling me to dump you then, too.  Something about understanding if I never wanted to come near you again.”

 

“And then you kissed me,” Tony muttered, looking down at his feet, bare in the flip-flops he’d been wearing to work in the lab, and not meeting Steve’s eyes.

 

“Hmm, I did, didn’t I?” Steve said. He reached up, curved one hand against Tony’s jaw, stroking gently, though he didn’t try and force his head up. “That didn’t tip you off at all how I felt?”

 

“Maybe you just wanted to see if we still had anything at all,” Tony said.  “Or—” But he couldn’t suggest that Steve might have just wanted to let off some steam, or anything like that. Even the suggestion was an insult to the kind of man Steve was.  He never would have done that, and Tony wasn’t in the mood to be cruel, would rather have borne any pain Steve could offer than lash out now.

 

“You don’t think we’ve proved that we do?” Steve asked, his voice soft, his thumb still stroking very gently against the top line of Tony’s beard.

 

Tony swallowed, but he had to be honest. “I know . . . I still feel . . . strongly about you,” he managed painfully.  His throat hurt.  His chest hurt. He still felt dizzy, like he was just about to keel right over, and if not for the RT he might have worried that he was about to have a heart attack.

 

“Good,” Steve said, and laid his other hand on Tony’s side, against his waist, holding him gently, almost as if to steady him. “Then we’re about even.”

 

“But why don’t you want to just drop me and get it over with?” Tony managed to get out from between numb, cold lips. It seemed like the question of the hour. “Why don’t you want to get as far away from me as you can?”

 

Steve shrugged.  “Why don’t you want to get as far away from _me_ as you can?” he asked bluntly.  “I practically broke your nose.”

 

Tony shrugged, because that was a stupid question, how could he not want to be close to Steve, if Steve would have him, and Steve scowled, but just brushed Tony’s cheekbone with his thumb and blew his breath out, and a moment later his face cleared.  “Maybe,” he said, “it’s because you’re a wonderful person, and I love you.”

 

Tony made a scoffing nose and looked down at his hands. Steve sighed, low and heavy and impatient, and took Tony’s wrists.  “Now that’s a little rude, mister,” he said, squeezing lightly.

 

“I just don’t see why you’d think that way,” Tony said, feeling abruptly exhausted.

 

“I know you don’t,” Steve said quietly.

 

“I know why I love you,” Tony said, too drained to fight it.  “But what you did to me was nothing to what I did, what I did to you, and I keep doing it.  You should get far away from me.  You should protect yourself from me.”

 

“Is that what you think?” Steve said, his voice still quiet.

 

Tony shrugged, still feeling hollow, himself. “I hurt everyone I care about,” he said. “I betrayed you. I . . . I don’t deserve to even look at you.”  Now that he had started, he just wanted to keep pouring it out, like letting pus drain out of a wound. That was selfish, he knew it was, but he was too exhausted to stop himself.  It almost felt like he was bleeding.

 

“It’s not about what you deserve,” Steve said.

 

“Why not?” Tony said, wearily. “Why can’t it be about that? Why can’t you have someone who _you_ deserve?”

 

“Someone other than you,” Steve said.

 

“Someone better than me!” Tony got out, painfully, and his voice was too loud, and it cracked in the middle. He wrenched his wrists away from Steve’s grip and dropped his face into his hands.  He felt so ashamed.  Pathetic. Why couldn’t Steve just . . . see?

 

“What if I don’t want anyone else?” Steve asked quietly.

 

Tony couldn’t answer that.  He gave a wretched, exhausted noise, and leaned down on his arms, hunching over his own lap without raising his head. “Well, maybe you should,” he said finally, dully.  “I could find you someone good. If you wanted.”

 

Steve curled one warm, heavy arm over his back and pressed his own forehead in against Tony’s neck.  “You’ve been keeping all this inside?” he said. “Bottling it up in here,” and his finger tapped lightly on Tony’s collarbone.

 

Tony shrugged, wearily, too tired to push Steve away. Everything felt like too much. Overwhelming, painful, wrenching. He felt sick.  “I love you, and I shouldn’t let myself,” he whispered. “I just wanted you to . . . I wanted to give you a chance to decide, to give you whatever you wanted from me. Without—without getting my stupid, messy issues all mixed up in it.  That’s all.  Just be—just be there, for you.  For a change.”

 

Steve just held him a moment, stroking his back again. Tony’s breath came shuddering and thick in his throat.  He couldn’t think. He couldn’t—breathe, quite. He didn’t know what to do, to say.

 

“Well, that’s not going to work,” Steve said after a long moment.

 

“It’s not,” Tony said, so tired. He was so tired. That much was obvious.

 

“I want you to have what _you_ want,” Steve said.  “So that’s really, really not going to work, Tony.”

 

Tony smiled, wry and rueful and feeling stupid, because he knew it would be unforgivable and cruel to throw Steve’s goodness back in his face by saying _well, that’s dumb, you shouldn’t_.  He’d never be able to forgive himself for that, let alone how it’d probably make Steve feel. “I’m sorry about this,” he said. “I didn’t mean to fall apart. It was just . . .” _you were so sweet to me_ sounded so damn idiotic.

 

“I don’t mind,” Steve said.  He hesitated, just a split second, but a long hesitation from Steve.  “In fact, I’m kind of glad you did.  For a while I’ve felt like you were a million miles away, and . . . and I wasn’t sure how to ever reach you. I . . . I’d like to know what’s going on with you sometimes.”

 

“I’m a mess,” Tony said, ruefully, tiredly blunt. “That’s what’s going on with me.”

 

“I’m a mess, too,” Steve said, in the tones of an admission.  “We’re both one hell of a mess together.”

 

“Mmm,” Tony agreed.  He sighed.  His chest ached. His stomach hurt, and all he could be was honest.  “I’m sorry for hurting you, Steve.  Even if I’d do the same thing again.”

 

There was a pause.  A moment of silence.  Tony was too tired to be afraid.  Whatever Steve could dish out, he was ready for it.  It couldn’t possibly be any worse than what he’d expected from the moment he started this.  Steve’s hand stayed on his back, warm.  “I’m sorry for hurting you, too,” Steve said then, slowly.  “Because I do love you, whatever you think of that idea.”  He sat back down on the floor and rested his arms loosely on his knees, looking up at Tony.  “Can you come down here?” he said.

 

Tony raised his head, looked at him dubiously. Steve shrugged, and Tony sighed and gave in, sliding off his chair and down to his knees, then his ass, a lot less gracefully than Steve had.  Steve looped his big, strong arms around his waist and pulled him over toward him, settling him in against his chest before Tony could protest, Tony’s back to Steve’s front, and he did feel very warm.  Tony immediately started to shiver—he hadn’t realized how cold he’d gotten in the chill of the workshop, in his old t-shirt and jeans, and covered in cold, stressful sweat, until that moment.  Tony closed his eyes, because it made it easier to let his head fall back against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve kissed his forehead again.

 

“It was a good day,” Tony said, quietly, barely moving his lips, and didn’t open his eyes.  “I’m sorry I fell apart.  That note you left for me was so sweet.”  His throat felt thick.

 

“I’m glad . . . it meant something to you,” Steve said. “What I said in it was true, you know.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t like to leave things unfinished,” he said.  “Can you hear that, at least? I don’t want to just leave this with you cut off in the middle.”

 

“I can hear that,” Tony agreed, and realized with some surprise that he meant it, that at least made sense. “Steve . . . .”

 

“Yes, sweetheart?” Steve said, and Tony trembled all over again, felt hot and cold at the same time.  At every sign of softness, of fondness and warmth from Steve, he felt like he was falling apart all over again.

 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Tony mumbled, turning his face away without opening his eyes.  “Why you love me.  Why you’d want me now.”

 

“It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me either, sometimes,” Steve said, and the answer was so honest and not designed to comfort that it surprised Tony, even from Steve, and relaxed something inside him from a tight, painful knot in a way that a more reassuring answer never could have, because he’d never have believed it.

 

“Oh,” he said.

 

“But I do,” Steve said, and he sounded so earnest, so damn earnest.  “I want to put this back together with you.  Somehow. I want you to want that, too. But if you can’t . . . .”

 

“I can,” Tony said, determined, suddenly. He wasn’t sure where that determination was coming from, but it was rising up in him, suddenly, like hot steel. “If you can, if you want to, then I can.”

 

“If you don’t want to,” Steve said, “don’t force yourself.  For my sake.”

 

“It’s not like that,” Tony said. How could he even put what it _was_ like into words? That being with Steve was amazing, incredible, didn’t feel real, made him feel like he was dreaming, like he was flying all the time, like he couldn’t fall, even when it hurt so badly it felt like it would tear him into pieces.  “I love you,” he said instead.  The words felt so tired.  “I just . . . .”

 

Steve hugged him slightly, around his middle. “I know, now, or at least, a little bit,” he said.  “It’s hard to forgive yourself.”

 

“Do you forgive me?” Tony asked, vaguely, tiredly curious.  He turned his face in toward Steve’s neck, because he was allowed, somehow, letting his face rest against Steve’s smooth skin.

 

“I’m working on it,” Steve said. He ran one hand gently through Tony’s hair, again.  “I will.”

 

It was more reassuring than Steve swearing he had would have been, somehow.  “No rush,” he mumbled.  “You don’t have to. I might feel better if you dragged it out, anyway.”

 

“You’re a little bit of a martyr, Shellhead,” Steve murmured against his temple.

 

“Takes one to know one, sweet stuff,” Tony said under his breath, and Steve chuckled.

 

“Now that’s my Tony,” Steve said, and Tony could hear the grin in his voice.  He sighed, feeling a strange sort of contentment wash over him, despite everything, despite all of it, all the reasons not to, all the humiliations he was compounding just now, and tucked his head further in against Steve’s neck.

 

“Your Tony?” he asked in a low voice.

 

“Yes,” Steve said, holding him a bit closer in response, big strong arm strong and sturdy at his back.  “The man I love.  The man who’s with me right now.”  He pressed his lips against Tony’s temple, the tousled curls of his hair, wet with cold sweat where they clung there along his hairline.  “He never lets me get away with anything, you know.”

 

Tony chuckled despite himself. “I let you get away with plenty,” he said.

 

“That so?” Steve asked.

 

“Mmm,” Tony said.  “Notice I’m sitting on the floor right now, being cuddled by someone I happen to know.”

 

“Touché,” Steve said.  He curled his arms around Tony’s waist a little more tightly.

 

“I’m just not sure if I know how to do that,” Tony said, in a sudden rush of wrenching honesty.  He just couldn’t put it off, couldn’t _not_ say it, and he wasn’t certain what was wrong with him. This, none of this, was like him at all.

 

“What?” Steve asked.  He wasn’t quite rocking Tony back and forth, but he was swaying him a little bit, very gently.  It was impossibly, inexpressibly comforting.

 

“Forgive myself,” Tony said, with a painful lump in his throat, and it was true.  How could he ever do that?  For the things he’d done.  The lines he’d crossed. The person he’d willingly become, to do those things.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, simply and surprisingly gently. He lifted one hand and ran one hand back through Tony’s hair again.  “I was getting that idea.”

 

For anything, Tony thought wearily, feeling oddly detached, out of himself, like he was out of his own body, almost. Out of his own head. Steve smelled good, like leather and sweat and soap and his own strong, sturdy body, the sweet, healthy scent that was his skin.  He was so glad Steve was here.  He was so glad he was all right.  At least there was that. That was left. He hadn’t managed to ruin that.

 

“Sleepy?” Steve said, his fingers still gently moving through Tony’s hair.

 

“Mmm,” Tony said.  “I guess so.”  He felt . . . strange, almost floating, distant and far away, but he figured that might be a symptom of tiredness.

  
Steve moved his other arm to lie comfortingly across Tony’s stomach, clasping him firmly to his body.  “We should go up to bed,” he said, but he sounded dubious, and a lot like he didn’t want to move.  Tony didn’t want to. He was in Steve’s arms like this. He didn’t want to lose that for anything, certainly not amenities as banal as pillows and sheets.

 

“Not right now,” he finally managed to murmur.

 

“You’ll cramp up,” Steve said. “And the floor is cold. Come on.”  He slid one arm down to slip it under Tony’s knees and curled the other around his shoulders, and swung him up before Tony could do more than make an indignant sound of protest.

 

“Hey!” he said, but he was still half-asleep, and that and a weak thump of a fist against Steve’s chest (because there was no way he was hitting him any harder), which Steve didn’t even respond to, was all he could manage before Steve was settling him into the cot he kept in a corner of his workshop and sliding around behind him.  He pulled Tony into his arms again, and they settled, easily enough, into an approximation of the position they’d had before, legs dangling over the side of the cot.

 

“Seemed fastest,” Steve said against his ear, sliding his arm around Tony’s stomach again.  “And you’re tired.”

 

“You’re a tyrant,” Tony said, and yawned, burrowing his head back in against Steve’s neck and shoulder again.

 

Steve just laughed.  “You’re just stubborn,” he said, sounding very fond all over again, and tousled Tony’s hair.

 

Tony laughed a little, too.  “Because you’re not, at all,” he said.  “Admit it, a pair of stubborn idiots, that’s us.”

 

“True,” Steve said.  His fingers shifted in Tony’s hair, stroking gently through it again, rubbing lightly at his head.  “Never said I wasn’t stubborn, too.”

 

Tony sighed, letting the touch of Steve’s hand in his hair, the warmth of his body, the feeling of his breaths against his cheek, soothe him into relaxation.  “Sorry for making things so difficult,” he murmured after a moment.

 

Steve smiled a little and kissed his temple. “I’d rather have you, difficult or not, than anyone else’s easy ride, Tony,” he said.  “Don’t you forget that.”

 

“Why are you so devoted to me, anyway?” Tony murmured, not really expecting an answer this time, but too relaxed, too open to Steve, really, to hold the question back.  “To being with me?  What about me makes it worth your time?”

 

Steve huffed a gentle breath against Tony’s ear, into his hair.  “Stubborn,” he said, but not harshly.  “You keep coming back to that, don’t you?”

 

“Well, I’d like to know,” Tony said. He blinked his eyes open, then thought better of it and let them flutter closed again.  There was nothing to see except the familiar lines and shapes of his workshop, and he’d rather focus on the shapes and warmth and half-forgotten unfamiliarity of Steve’s body under his, curled around him. And he _was_ tired, after all.

 

“You’d just argue with me if I gave you reasons,” Steve said, and Tony could admit that was probably true. “So I’ll just say I like the way you fit with me.  Sharp edges and all.” His fingers dragged slowly through Tony’s hair.  “And even if you hide things, even if you won’t let me in, I know you . . . you keep a place in your heart for me.”

 

“You love me because I love you?” Tony asked, challenging, but he let his voice stay soft.  “You can’t base an argument on that kind of circular reasoning, Steve, let alone a relationship.”

 

“It’s just one reason,” Steve said, mildly. “I have plenty more. But it’s one reason I can feel safe with you.  Even if you have hurt me, because it’s different, that’s different.  And that’s not a small thing.  Not for me.  Not at all.” His voice was so earnest, so sincere, bright and burning with it.

 

“But I don’t treat you right,” Tony murmured, and he couldn’t help the way his voice sounded, small and sad, no matter how he tried.  “Safe? With _me_? I—I mean . . . I don’t let that—that love do the talking, or make my decisions.  Not ever, really.  It’s not enough.” He wondered if he’d ever have enough love, for anyone.  Enough not to make a mess of it.  Enough not to fail. He clearly didn’t have enough to protect Steve, or to keep Steve safe with him.  Steve wasn’t safe with him, that much was clear.  Tony was a . . . a black hole of a relationship.

 

“Good,” Steve said, jerking him out of his thoughts and surprising him completely.  “Good, I don’t want it to.”  When Tony looked up at him, eyes open in earnest now, in frowning surprise, he just smiled back down at him.  “Do you really think I want the kind of love that wipes away everything else, any kind of moral obligation or feeling, everything that was important before it, to set itself up as the center of everything?” he said.  “C’mon, do you think that’s the kind of thing I’d want?  Really?  I don’t want that kind of selfish, possessive idea of love.  I don’t want love that stomps all over what you think is important. I want _you_ , Tony, and you’ve never put your own feelings before anything else. No matter how much you want to. Why should you start now? Why would I want you to start doing that?”

 

Tony frowned.  “But you matter,” he said.  “I should treat you like you do.  Someone should put you first, Steve.  Your _lover_ should, at least, and I—”

 

“I don’t want that,” Steve said, with finality. “I don’t want you to put me first, Tony. I _know_ you think I matter, do you think that doesn’t mean anything to me? But I don’t want that as the center of your life.  I never pursued you to make that happen.  I wanted this with you because you—you understand.  Because you do the same things I do, and you care about the same things.”

 

It took Tony’s breath away with shock, hearing Steve say that so confidently, after all the world, universe-shattering disagreements they’d had, to have him say so simply, so unquestioningly, that they cared about the same things—he honestly felt like he’d forgotten how to breathe. “Steve,” he got out, strangled.

 

“I know you do,” Steve said, more softly. “The big things, Tony. Even if I forgot it for a while.”

 

“Come on, Steve,” Tony said, trying to brazen it out, but his throat felt thick and his voice came out sounding rough. “You’re never going to be a utilitarian.”

 

“True,” Steve said.  “Never.”  He smiled a little. “I never said we _agreed_ on them,” he said.  “But you can’t convince me you’re not at least a little bit of an idealist, either.”

 

“You can’t—can’t mean that,” Tony said in pure shock. His stomach wrenched, turned over, and he had to concentrate to drag in a breath so he could continue to speak. “Not after—not after—”

 

“If you weren’t an idealist, would you feel so terrible now?” Steve said, inexorably.

 

Tony just shook his head, in disbelief, in denial . . . not in agreement, staring at him.

 

“I hear you, you know, at night,” Steve said, more quietly, after a moment, looking down.  “Crying out with your nightmares.  You’re still torturing yourself over it, aren’t you?”

 

Tony put his head in his hands again and trembled, leaning forward, away from the warmth of Steve’s body, half-instinctively. “I don’t,” he said. “I . . . I told you, I’d do it again, I made my choices.”

 

“So you don’t have nightmares?” Steve said, scoffing a little, as if he thought that whole statement was just flat ridiculous.

 

Maybe it was.  Steve would know better than Tony, if he lay awake at night while Tony slept, as fitfully as he did these days.  That made something sick wrench in his gut, the thought that Steve would just be lying there, unable to sleep, and he wouldn’t even know.

 

Not that he’d be able to do anything about it if he did, of course.  He doubted he could give Steve any kind of soothing, or comfort, even with his body, even just by serving as a place of . . . of release.  Not anymore.  And whose fault was that, anyway?  It was his. All his.  He couldn't blame anyone but himself.  Once, he’d always been able to soothe Steve into sleep, or out of a bad dream.  Every time, without fail. He’d been . . . a little bit proud of that.  But Steve could hardly want his pathetic attempts at comfort now.

 

It still hurt.  He still . . . wanted to.  He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes with one hand when they burned, scrubbed it back over his face.

 

Steve was right, though—he did have nightmares. He couldn’t deny that. About the . . . end, about what would have happened if they’d all failed.  In some of them he watched Steve disintegrate in front of his eyes. About Steve’s face when he’d first betrayed him—about Steve’s face when he’d found out.

 

About all of it, about it being for nothing. All the—the things he’d done—

 

“I deserve it,” he said hollowly. “I deserve all of it, all of this. After everything I did . . . .”

 

“See?” Steve said, quietly, pressing a kiss to the back of his shoulder blade.  “Idealist.”

 

“You have to still be angry with me,” Tony said. “I—I—”

 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Steve said, sounding a bit weary now.  “I am. But I know you’re suffering; I know you’re punishing yourself, and it makes it hard to keep it up.  Watching you tear yourself into pieces just makes me want to hold you together.  Always has.”

 

“Don’t make excuses for me,” Tony whispered. “Don’t take it easy on me. I don’t deserve that, Steve.”

 

“Listen to Mr. High-and-Mighty Stark,” Steve said. “Telling me what I can and can’t do.”

 

Tony flinched.  “I didn’t mean . . .” he barely managed to get out, because he had, hadn’t he?  “I—Steve—I—”

 

Steve’s arms went around him, squeezed a little. “Calm down,” he said.   “Shh.”

 

“I’m just a mess,” Tony said helplessly, humiliated at that.  His throat hurt. “Embarrassing myself every other second, I—I’m sorry, Steve.  I can’t help myself, it seems like.”

 

“Shhh,” Steve said, actually shushing him this time, though not too condescendingly, at least, small favors. “C’mon, Tony, I was just teasing you a little.”  He ran his hand gently up and down over Tony’s stomach.  “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

 

“I know,” Tony said, tired and miserable. “You wouldn’t. But it’s true. I’m an arrogant jackass, and—”

 

“It’s just hard to know what to say when you come out with things like that,” Steve said, sounding a little tired himself. He held Tony a little tighter to his chest.  “I can’t convince you that you’re wrong about what you deserve, so what else am I going to do?”

 

“I always get away with it,” Tony said, barely moving his lips.  “No one ever punishes me.”

 

Steve went very still.  “Is that what you think?” he said, after a moment, his voice very low.

 

“And then we just go on to the next thing,” Tony said, shaking now.  He pushed his hands back into his hair.  “And I—I—I do the same thing all over again.  I’ll never change.  I’ll always think the same way . . . do the same things, and if it’s so terrible, maybe, maybe I shouldn’t be an Avenger, because it keeps happening, and I—would do the same thing again—” It hurt to admit it, but it was true. Maybe because it was true. “And no one, no one stops me, I should be stopped, I’m out of control—”

 

“Tony,” Steve said, his voice very even, over a trembling kind of tension.  “Tell me what you remember about the time after I died during the SHRA.”

 

“You know I don’t remember, Steve,” Tony said, dully. “I’m always getting off easy. Like I said.”

 

“ _Brain damage_ isn’t easy, Tony,” Steve said, his words clipped and icy. “You could have died. You practically did.”

 

“I only got what I asked for,” Tony said. “What I planned. It was . . . it was all my idea, after all.  All of it, from—from the beginning.”

 

“Goddamnit,” Steve gritted out. “People called you a _traitor_.  They let Norman Osborn beat the hell out of you.  And you were _saving_ them, and your friends all hated you, and no one would give you the time of day. People treated you like shit, like something they wanted to wipe off the bottom of their shoes, and I never saw you even blink at it, let alone complain.  Not to mention that you didn’t _deserve_ it, any of it, you didn’t _need_ to be punished, but—if that’s not punishment, what is?”

 

“I got off easy,” Tony repeated, his throat thick. He stared down at his hands. “I deserved worse. For what I did. All the mistakes I made. I don’t even have to remember.” _I would have deserved your hatred, but you were too generous to give it to me_ , he thought bleakly.  Maybe if he could remember that time when Steve had hated him, he’d feel more like he’d gotten what he deserved, if he remembered having suffered through that pain, too—but he doubted it.  At the end of the day, he really had gotten off easy.  Steve had _died_.  How could a little depression from Tony ever compare to that?

 

And Tony couldn’t even say that he’d have done anything differently.  How could he say he loved Steve after that?

 

“No, you just had to suffer for things you don’t remember at all,” Steve said in a hot voice.  “You lost years of your life.”

 

They hadn’t been good years.  “They should have treated me like they treated Osborn,” Tony mumbled, “and you made me an Avenger again.”

 

“That is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve heard in a long time,” Steve said, and he sounded furious.  “You shut your damn mouth.  You are nothing like that man.  He’s nothing but a killer and a madman.  You _saved_ people, Tony. You worked yourself practically to death doing it, and then you condemned yourself to the worst fate I can imagine for you to save the rest of us and destroy the SHRA database. I’d say that slate’s been wiped clean for you.  It has in _my_ book, at least.”

 

“I had a way out,” Tony said, his throat aching. “I always do, and woosh, there we go, all better now.”  He waved one hand, vaguely.  “I’m never the one who dies.”

 

“Well, thank God,” Steve said, his voice strangled. “I never want to see you like that ever again.  Broken. Mindless.  I—”

 

“Makes it not much of a sacrifice,” Tony said, shrugging.

 

“You felt it,” Steve said.  “You felt every moment of it, of your mind slipping away from you. It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember.”  He reached up, slid one hand, very gently, over the RT, and held on.  “Your body does.  You felt it.  Every second of it.”

 

Tony trembled.  He couldn’t dwell on that, on what Steve was saying, and doing, too long, he’d fall apart, but he reached down, settled one hand over Steve’s on the RT and squeezed, carefully not thinking about why.  “And then you let me off easy with the Illuminati . . .” Tony said, swallowing hard, and tried to inject some irony into his tone. “That first time, I mean. And look what happened with that.”

 

“You remember this,” Steve said, voice still impassioned, “all this, very differently than I do.  I don’t remember letting you off ‘easy.’  Whatever that means.  Not this time or last time.  I remember humiliating you in front of the group of people who mean the most to you in the world, yelling at you like I wouldn’t have yelled at a raw recruit, giving you the third degree like you were some criminal, and not someone strong enough to hold and use the Infinity Gauntlet.”

 

“So is Thanos,” Tony said.  “I’m not putting it on my resume.”  _So are you_ , he thought to himself.

 

“Wow, you know who’s not relevant at all to this conversation, Stark?” Steve said, but he ran his hand through Tony’s hair again, gently.  “You never questioned, not ever, why every single time I had a problem with your little club I took it out on you.  You know that?”

 

“You know me best, out of all of them,” Tony said. “I thought—I thought it was only fair.”

 

“Right,” Steve said tightly.  “Fair.  That sure is exactly what it is.”

 

“I thought you were still angry,” Tony said. It didn’t seem right, to hear Steve being so down on himself, blaming himself so harshly and turning that irony inward. It wasn’t Steve’s fault. Even if it had hurt, it . . . it was on Tony. “The Illuminati were my idea. My responsibility.”

 

“Another thing that’s all you, huh,” Steve sighed, sounding frustrated, and Tony couldn’t help the way he flinched. Steve took a loud, explosive breath. “Okay, you big old idiot,” he said, “Namor is completely your responsibility, right?  One hundred percent.  You swam down under the sea as a child and made him into a jackass.”

 

Tony choked on a laugh.  Namor was Steve’s friend, even with everything else that had happened—he hadn’t been expecting him to say it like that, exactly.

 

“And he’s sure never been on a team _I_ led, making his behavior partly _my_ responsibility,” Steve said.  “And you’re in charge of choosing the next Sorcerer Supreme, too, right?  And you killed Charles Xavier while you were at it—”

 

“The team was my idea, Steve,” Tony pointed out.

 

“And I’m sure they all followed your lead without question,” Steve said.  “I’m sure they accepted that idea without a single argument or comment or change.”

 

“Um,” Tony said.  He stared down at his hands.  He’d never wanted it to be a secret.  He’d wanted them all to share their information openly.  It sounded like a dream now, even to him. It felt like it had been so long ago. So . . . so long ago. But it had only been a few years. He’d . . . they’d never listened to him, that much, even though—even when he’d expected them to. He’d thought his arguments were so good, but they’d treated him like the idealistic one.  Like he didn’t see the real world.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said.  “I thought so.”

 

“That doesn’t let me off the hook,” Tony said. “I could have fought harder—I could have refused to—”

 

“But it was your idea,” Steve said. “And you still thought the idea had merit.  And you never, ever back out, do you?  You always stay in the fight. You always try your goddamn hardest. No matter how bad it gets.”

 

“I never back away from staining my hands,” Tony said.

 

“You listen to me too much, is what you do,” Steve said.  Tony blinked up at him, confused, and Steve’s mouth softened ruefully from its hard, set anger, and he pulled Tony close again, pressing a kiss against his cheek, rubbing one hand gently over his shoulder.

 

“But you said,” Tony said, “you said you hadn’t forgiven me.”  He felt very confused now.

 

“Sure,” Steve said.  “I haven’t.  Not totally. I’m trying.  But that doesn’t change the facts.”

 

“That’s just your opinion,” Tony told him. He sighed, said more quietly, “Not the facts.”

 

Steve sighed.  “Yeah,” he said, sounding sad now.  “Okay. It’s my _opinion_ that you’re not a worthless, unmitigated asshole, Tony Stark.” He sighed a little more. “Try listening sometime when I’m _not_ yelling at you for a change, okay, sweetheart?” he said quietly.  Just try it.”

 

“I am listening,” Tony said, a little hurt despite himself.

 

Steve ran his hand through Tony’s hair, gentle and soft, and brought him close.  “And arguing with everything I say,” he said low against Tony’s skin, lips warm against his skin just above his beard.

 

Tony frowned.  “Aren’t I allowed to disagree?” he said.  He was so tired now; he’d lost track of it, somewhere along the line, but he was exhausted.

 

Steve slid one arm around his back and held him. “You’re allowed,” he said. “It’s just that your opinions about that Tony Stark fella are so terrible, and harsh.”

 

“Steve,” Tony said, shoving him a little, and laughing weakly.  “Come on.”

 

“What?” Steve said, smiling at him. “I’m entitled to my opinion, too.”

 

“I love you, honey,” Tony said tiredly, resting his head against Steve’s shoulder.  He curled one arm around Steve’s neck, moved in against him.  “I—whatever else.  I love you so much.”

 

“I love you, too,” Steve said, and ran one hand up along Tony’s spine.  “I love you, and I love you enough I don’t want to give up on you.  Ever.  Definitely not this easy.  You get that?”

 

“I hear that,” Tony said, tiredly.

 

“Good,” Steve said.  He ran his hand down Tony’s back again, and said, more quietly, “Listen, I’ve got you, baby.  I know you’re tired.”

 

“Not too tired to talk to you,” Tony said, smiling a little ruefully, and pressing his forehead in to rest close against Steve’s neck. They were actually talking. He . . . he couldn’t remember the last time they’d done that.  It had probably just been a quiet moment.  Before the incursions had started—a smile and a laugh.  But so much had happened since, and he couldn’t place it. For some reason that made his stomach hurt, vague and wistful.  Anyway, he wasn’t in a hurry to have this be over.  Who knew when it might happen again, after all.

 

Steve rubbed his hand up and down his back, and Tony found himself shivering under it.  The touch just felt so vivid—so intense, Steve’s big hand careful and warm along the curve of his spine.  Tony could barely breathe, found his hands curling in against Steve’s shirt and pulling tight.  He had to take a deep, shaking breath.

 

Tony was never going to be too tired for that.

 

“Thanks,” Steve said, against his ear. He ran his hand down Tony’s back again, pulled him closer, and Tony sighed, let his eyes flutter closed.

 

“That feels good,” he mumbled, then felt his face heat up.  It was such an . . . unthinking thing to say, like . . . nothing had ever happened. Like they were still . . . still whatever they had been.

 

“Good,” Steve murmured in his ear. “It does, doesn’t it? It’s . . .” he hesitated, took a deep breath.  “It’s nice to have you here,” he murmured all hoarse and low.

 

Tony swallowed a wry laugh.  “It is?” he asked quietly.

 

“Sure is,” Steve said, a smile in his voice. A second later, his voice got low and rough again.  “I missed you,” he said, all rough and thick.

 

Oh. Tony didn’t know what to do, or to say.  He wasn’t—Steve wasn’t supposed to have—this wasn’t working out how he’d expected, and his chest ached, his stomach hurt, at that, it twisted up inside him and felt warm and aching and rough-edged all at the same time. He swallowed.  He should say something, he knew he should. But he didn’t know what to say. He had missed Steve, too, of course he had, but it had been—saying it back just sounded so trite, so banal and easy, the words didn’t seem to capture the emptiness he’d felt, the distance between them all that time, when he’d known what he’d done to Steve and Steve hadn’t and it had felt like he’d never be able to really touch him, to reach out and bridge that distance, again.  And then . . . everything since, and how could he even have the right to say that, after everything he’d done.  None of this was Steve’s fault, but everything, _everything_ , Tony had suffered, he’d done to himself.  “I—” he said, and swallowed again.  “I, Steve—”  Suddenly, humiliatingly, he felt like he was on the verge of tears, and hot, acrid disgust at himself welled up in his throat.

 

He didn’t deserve to be acting like this. To be wallowing in it like this. He’d done this to himself; it was all his fault anyway, Steve shouldn’t have to deal with him like this—

 

“Tony?” Steve said, and then his arms tightened around Tony, he pressed a kiss to the side of Tony’s neck, sweet and steady and warm, and Tony choked on his own breath a little.  “Maybe . . . there’s something you maybe want to say back?” he said, obviously prompting, his voice still rough and emotional, and it was the half-hesitant hope in that tone that undid Tony completely.

 

He dropped his head into his hands, wrenched out, “Steve,” voice wretched and gravelly-hoarse and absolutely awful even in his own ears, and then had to concentrate on not dissolving completely and turning into a sniveling mess.  He barely even knew what he’d said out loud, just that he’d had to, managed to say, _something_.  He couldn’t apologize, he didn’t deserve to, but he had no idea what else to say. He curled over his own arm, pressed against his stomach, pressed his other hand over his face. He couldn’t look at Steve—he couldn’t breathe.  He didn’t want Steve to look at him.

 

Steve’s hand clenched on his shoulder, not painfully hard, but firm, almost immovable.  He felt it turning him, pulling him in close, even closer, and he somehow couldn’t think to resist, couldn’t do anything, just let Steve shift him until he was pressed in close against his chest, half-uncomfortable, but somehow perfectly warm, perfectly steadying, for all that.  Tony didn’t, couldn’t struggle, couldn’t move.  Steve reached down, pulled Tony’s hand away from his face, pulled him close until he was plastered against Steve’s chest, face in his neck, Steve’s arm like stone against his back.  They stayed like that for a long few moments.  Tony could feel himself trembling.  He felt so fragile, like metal under too much stress for too long, that was about to shatter.  He hated being this weak, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

 

Steve’s hand came up, smoothed slowly, gently through his hair, warm and soft and sweet despite the way his other arm was locked at Tony’s back, keeping him pinned against him, so close he could hardly breathe.  He felt hot all through; his face was burning, and he kept choking on his breaths. After a moment, Steve shifted his hold, pressed his palm in against the small of Tony’s back, not soft at all, but hard and firm.  Tony still couldn’t move, but somehow that untwisted something inside him, he could get a breath again. He could feel himself relax, that horrible building heat ebbing away.  He rested his forehead on Steve’s shoulder and let himself just gasp for breath for a few moments, Steve’s arms so strong and secure around him.  Steve curled his arms a little more around him, bent down over him, pressing his face in against Tony’s neck, too, against his hair, his palm still so firm, almost painful at the small of Tony’s back. It felt . . . well, it felt perfect.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony mumbled when he finally had his breath back enough to speak evenly.  “I didn’t mean to . . . to fall apart like that.”

 

“It’s fine,” Steve murmured.  He pressed his lips in against Tony’s ear, just behind it. “It’s fine, Tony.”

 

“It’s not fine,” Tony muttered. “I’m a wreck.  It’s pathetic.”

 

“You’re fine,” Steve said.  “You might be . . . a little bit of a mess, but that’s . . . it’s fine.  It’s . . . it, it hurt me, too.  And I . . .” he swallowed, thick and gulping, and that big, broad chest shook just a little, Tony could feel it, his arm slid up Tony’s back, clenching into a tight fist against his shoulder, he pressed his lips in tighter against his ear.  “I’m glad I’m not alone.”

 

“But I hurt you,” Tony said, his throat dry, gasping and aching.  “It’s my fault.”

 

“Leave it,” Steve said, hoarse and rough against his ear.  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He pressed another kiss into Tony’s hair, leaving his lips there, moved one hand up to rest at the back of his neck. “We can get past it, right? Together.  We can . . . we can do anything, together, can’t we, Shellhead?”

 

Tony almost choked, felt his eyes burning. He took a deep breath, swallowed past it as best he could.  “Anything?” he managed, trying to grin, to tease, though he knew it sounded weak.

 

“Well, almost anything,” Steve said, and Tony thought he might be smiling, too.  He ran his hand up into Tony’s hair again.

 

“This isn’t like figuring out an equation and throwing your shield to save the day,” Tony managed to get out into his shoulder.

 

“It can’t be any harder than what we just got through,” Steve said with a huffing intake of breath.  “If you think this is worse than—than jumping through time endlessly—” he swallowed.  “Well, it’s not,” he finished up, all rough and hoarse.

  
Tony couldn’t ignore that rough little tremble of distress, could never have ignored it.  He wrapped one arm around Steve’s shoulders, fought the other free and wrapped it around his back. He wanted to apologize for doing it to him, but he knew himself that was a little nonsensical—only in the vaguest sense had he put Steve in that position—and that Steve wouldn’t hear it. All he could do was hold him. He closed his eyes, held him a little closer, trying to say with his body everything he couldn’t seem to say right out loud, that he was sorry, that he still wanted Steve, even if he didn’t deserve him.

 

That he’d missed him, too.

 

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, only that Steve nudged him, sometime later, and it woke him out of a half-aware doze so that he realized he actually had fallen asleep with his arms around Steve and his face pressed into his shoulder.  It was only later, when he was falling into bed, after kicking off his stupid flip-flops and putting the note carefully in the top drawer of his end table (Steve hadn’t carried him up the stairs, at least, he’d been able to convince him to let Tony walk up them on his own two feet, like an adult), after Steve had started to peel himself out of his uniform and Tony had offered to help him, hesitant at first and then more assured as he helped Steve pull it down to his waist, step out of it, let his hands skim hesitantly over the strong smooth skin of his back, and Steve leaned in, gently, after, framing both sides of Tony’s face in his hands, to touch their lips together, so softly before he bit and sucked lightly on the bottom one, coaxed Tony’s mouth open so he could slip his tongue carefully and slowly inside, and Tony responded eagerly, breathlessly, but with the same slowness and softness, not daring, not wanting, to break that moment, not until Steve pulled away—that he realized Steve hadn’t brought up the question he’d asked him once.  Not once, through that whole long . . . thing, that whole conversation. 

 

Steve shifted closer to him in bed than he had for . . . for a long time, close enough that Tony could feel the warmth of his body not quite pressed up against his, before he touched his back again and said good night.  Tony barely managed to answer before his eyes were closing.  Steve’s hand felt so good there, on his back, and he left it there, this time, wrapped around his side, warm and rough against the skin over his ribs under Tony’s t-shirt, while Tony fell into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a fairly detailed description of food and eating, and also one of the characters has a panic attack, which is also described in detail. There's also a sex scene that gets pretty hot and heavy even though one of the participants is really participating just to please the other that gets cut off in the middle by the panic attack.

The next day, the whole conversation felt almost like a dream, except that his dreams hadn’t been that good lately, hadn’t featured Steve _cuddling_ him of all things, holding him while he fell apart. Yeah, that was—that didn’t come up much, like even his subconscious couldn’t quite believe it. Tony was ashamed of himself, for how weak and needy, how pathetic, he’d been, leaning on Steve like he had, clinging to him, collapsing into self-loathing and even accepting the comfort Steve had offered him for it. Everything he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do. Everything he’d told himself he didn’t deserve to do. It was hard even to force himself to look Steve in the face.

 

But Steve had said he was glad, he reminded himself, that he’d wanted to know what was going on with Tony. Well, there he was, Tony thought with brutal self-directed mockery, in all his pathetic, messy, idiotic glory. Wow, what a show. So worth waiting for. He sure hoped Steve had gotten what he wanted. If nothing else, it had to be a confirmation of how much better Steve actually deserved.

 

But for some reason, Steve still wanted him. Tony didn’t know what to do with that, or what to tell him. How to . . . fix this. He was trying so hard to fix everything, these days, as much as he could, but he’d never been any good at fixing things like this. He didn’t know what Steve wanted from him, or how he could be that for him. He wanted to be, to be able to be whatever Steve wanted, to do whatever he could for him, but . . . . How could he ever even think he could make it up to him? What he’d done? And now he’d—he’d been so—so pathetic.

 

God, just thinking about how he’d collapsed like that made him feel hot and prickling with shame, naked and stripped raw. But Steve didn’t . . . he didn’t call him on it, or even remind him of how embarrassing he’d been, just came back the next morning with breakfast again while Tony was still getting ready, and kissed him on the mouth, called him sweetheart, kissed his cheekbone and then his ear and made him smile and almost laugh as he ran his hands gently over Tony’s sides, not quite tickling.

 

“You’re spoiling me,” Tony told him.

 

“You need an easy day sometimes,” Steve said, face going a little grave, and it was the closest he came to mentioning the night before.

 

“You’ve been bringing me breakfast a lot, though,” Tony said, and swallowed. “Lately.”

 

“Maybe I like doing it,” Steve said, smiling at him now. “I like knowing you’ve eaten something before I lose my chance to get something in you beside the coffee.”

 

Tony made a face at him, doing up his own tie while he did. “I’m not a child,” he said. “I’m a big boy. I can feed myself and everything.”

 

“If you don’t want me to keep tabs on you eating, you should try actually doing it when I leave you to your own devices,” Steve said.

 

Tony frowned. He just hadn’t . . . felt that hungry lately. He knew he’d lost weight, but it had been hard to care, except about how it made him look bad, like . . . like he had while he’d been drinking. “I can take care of myself,” he muttered.

 

“Sure,” Steve said easily, coming up behind him and dropping his hands to rest on Tony’s hips, smiling at him in the mirror, “but I like it when you let me do it.”

 

Steve felt very warm behind him. Tony resisted the urge to lean back against him, tilt his head back against his shoulder. He told himself it was because he’d just gelled his hair, but he knew it was because he still wasn’t sure if that would be . . . all right. Or what was all right now. He was awkward around Steve, still, and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to stop second-guessing everything he did. He just . . . wasn’t sure what to do. How this was supposed to work. He guessed he’d never been quite sure, but these days it felt even more impossible to guess right, to figure it out.

 

“And you’re almost filling out again,” Steve said, tracing his hand gently up over Tony’s hip, along the dip of his back. “Just need to put on a few more pounds.”

 

“Jesus, Steve,” Tony muttered, “I feel like a Christmas goose you’re fattening up.”

 

“People don’t still eat goose for Christmas,” Steve laughed. “More like a boxer who needs to be the right weight class.” He gripped Tony’s forearms and squeezed.

 

“We always had goose,” Tony said, momentarily distracted. When he’d been home, anyway. Which had always been awful, but that wasn’t the point. The goose hadn’t been the awful part. “Jarvis cooks a mean goose, let me tell you.”

 

“And people say I’m old-fashioned,” Steve chuckled, and kissed the sensitive place just behind Tony’s ear. “You are such a hoity-toity, upper-class punk.”

 

Tony smiled a little, because Steve was grinning and nibbling a little on his ear. “Yeah, okay, I can’t deny it,” he said. “I was born disgustingly, hideously rich, and my dad was a traditionalist. Don’t mess up my hair, I have a meeting today.”

 

“Aw, if you insist,” Steve said, and kissed the hinge of Tony’s jaw instead. “You look snazzy, like always.”

 

“Good,” Tony said, smiling into the mirror, then turned around and dared to kiss Steve on the lips, curling his arms around his shoulders. “I might need to resort to fluttering my eyelashes to get this contract.”

 

“Well, that should work just fine,” Steve said. “You’ve got great eyelashes.” He slid his thumb down the line of Tony’s jaw, tilted his head up, and leaned in to kiss him again, warm and gentle, but firmly enough to get Tony’s lips parting.

 

“No problem with my being an underhanded flirt, Rogers?” Tony gasped against his lips. “You surprise me.”

 

“Nope,” Steve said, and slid his hand down Tony’s back to swat his ass, very lightly. “Knock ‘em dead, Stark.”

 

Tony bit back a gasp of surprise, then grinned at him, straightening his tie. “All right,” he said, “you got it,” and leaned in for one last kiss.

 

That had gone . . . really well, he reflected with vague surprise, in the car on the way to the office. It had felt almost like—almost exactly like old times. Like nothing had ever happened between them.

 

Like he had never lied, or used Steve, or broken his trust so egregiously.

 

He’d slipped Steve’s note from the day before into his pocket again and rubbed his thumb over it, taking a deep breath.

 

And Steve still hadn’t pushed him for an answer to his question. Hadn’t even asked. Tony wasn’t certain what to do with that, either. Maybe he was just going to have to come up with an answer, then tell Steve, instead of waiting for Steve to ask him again like he was under some kind of time limit.

 

Yeah, that might be—that might be more like what Steve wanted from him.

 

He guessed that took some of the pressure off, but he still couldn’t stop thinking about it. He felt like he should just get himself together and give Steve an answer already—but he had no idea what he wanted, or how he felt, which sort of made that difficult.

 

Hell, he already knew he was never going to leave this alone. He was going to keep poking at it until he had an answer. Now it was a puzzle he wanted to solve, and it would bother him until he knew, because it didn’t make any sense. He’d always thought he didn’t like pain, didn’t want it—so why had he wanted it so desperately from Steve before, and why did the idea of it make him feel hot and needy and desperate now?

 

He guessed maybe it could be explained just by how fucked up he was, and had been lately. He’d been a mess when he asked Steve for pain . . . before. Maybe that was what it came down to—him being a pathetic mess, all over the place, with no idea how to handle it, drowning in his own emotions rather than being able to keep a hold on them. He hadn’t been very . . . good, lately.

 

But that didn’t explain how different it felt now from how it had felt then. Back then he had been drowning, no question. And terrified with it. Even while he’d been asking the thought of Steve hurting him had made him want to throw up. That was _why_ he’d asked, why he’d wanted it in the first place, fucked up bastard that he was. But now . . . now it didn’t feel like that. Sure, it still made his stomach twist and turn with nerves and his heart pound too loud in his ears, but . . . it also made him feel strangely safe, to think of it. Steve holding him down, Steve working him over, Steve making him take whatever Steve wanted, whatever Steve thought he deserved . . . .

 

That probably _should_ have terrified him, all over again. Not too long ago Steve would have said what Tony deserved was . . . well, to be off the team, to start with. Whatever Steve thought traitors did deserve. Which apparently was a broken nose, at least. Probably a lot more. Maybe Steve would have wanted to see him on trial for what he’d done, or—or punished for it. Executed, even. And what Tony did, in all honesty, deserve . . . well.

 

What he deserved was a lot worse than anything Steve would ever dish out, that was for sure. That had become pretty clear.

 

But somehow it didn’t feel terrifying at all. He wasn’t sure if that was because whatever Steve wanted to do to him now he _wanted_ , was at peace with, or what, because . . . because he really wasn’t sure what Steve wanted to do. But it wasn’t something that scared him. Apparently. It settled in his stomach with heat, made his skin feel warm and sparking and sensitive, and he braced his mouth against his hand and took a deep breath because he felt a little dizzy. In that too light, too bright, floating, buoyant way. It felt good, and there was something hot and slow that twisted in him, too, deep in his gut, when he thought about Steve holding him down, the way he’d trapped his hands and pushed him back into the shower, other times he’d spread Tony’s legs and gripped his wrists and pressed him down over the bed, the sofa, wherever. Times he’d shoved him down into the mat, even, and Tony couldn’t get free no matter how hard he tried, and that was probably inappropriate in all kinds of ways, but Tony couldn’t seem to bring himself to care quite enough about that.

 

It did feel . . . safe. The way Steve’s hands on his hips that morning had. And he didn’t know what that was about.

 

That feeling only got hotter and deeper when he thought about the times Steve had slapped him hard on the ass or the thighs during sex, enough to make pain spark and shiver through him, but in a—a good way, the way his fingers would dig into Tony’s hips or ass, his thighs, when he was really far gone on it, or when Tony encouraged him to do it, and left pinpricks of pain under his fingertips that turned into deeply tender purpling bruises the next day. He’d—he’d always liked that, feeling that pressure, that touch of Steve’s strength, the reminder the next day.

 

He really had thought he hated pain in bed. Every time he’d done it before now it had sucked. And not in a good way. (Ugh, making lame jokes, even in your own head, now, Stark.) But with—with Steve . . . . And he really needed to get his mind on work, and off Steve. But it wasn’t as easy as it should have been. He couldn’t seem to focus.

 

It was easier once he was at work, of course. He was pretty sure that conference did actually go well. (And he did look at the executives for Beneco under his eyelashes and grin all slow and crooked a few times, so, well, there. He’d lived up to what he’d said. He hadn’t been kidding. He knew he was good-looking, and so did they, and if it helped Stark get that contract . . . . Tony prided himself on being a _good_ flirt, subtle, not obviously sleazy unless he intended to be.) But after that, his mind kept drifting. Back to what Steve had asked him. Back to what Steve might want him to do.

 

Might. Since he still didn’t know why Steve was asking all this, did he? Or what Steve intended to do with the information once he had it. He knew what Steve’s idea of pain play was, it was . . . intense. Steve begged Tony to use their meanest floggers on him, to smack his cock or his hole, to stripe his ass raw until it practically bled and fuck him after, and Tony . . . okay, he usually didn’t have the guts to do half of it, not even half, but Steve was a masochist in the purest sense of the word, he _knew_ that. And Tony, he—he wasn’t. But Steve knew that, too. So he wouldn’t . . . he wouldn’t want Tony to _get off_ on it the way Steve did, and be disappointed if he couldn’t. Would he? Because he already knew Tony couldn’t, he had to, and . . . .

 

And Steve had stopped, that last time, when Tony had begged him to be hurt. He kept coming back to that. Steve hadn’t done it, he had stopped, when he thought that it wasn’t what Tony really wanted. Or needed. Or . . . whatever.

 

So he . . . he’d known. And he—cared. He cared about what was best for Tony. About whether it would really hurt, or just hurt for . . . fun, or whatever, however people thought about this; Tony was already getting turned around and all twisted up in circles, but the point was that Steve had _cared_. And not just about what Tony said, but how he . . . how he felt. How he really felt about the whole thing. And he still cared, or . . . why all the rest of it? Why push Tony so little, give him so much time to sort himself out? Why stop at all, in the first place?

 

Why hold Tony while he fell apart all over Steve like a pathetic, embarrassing asshole the way he had last night? Fuck Tony if he still knew _how_ or _why_ Steve still cared about him, of all people, but he did. That much was . . . it was clear. He’d—he’d made that clear. He’d _held_ him. Part of Tony was still suggesting that it might be better, better for Steve, if he just threw that back in Steve’s face, but he . . . he couldn’t.

 

He’d hurt Steve, he couldn’t just dump him now. Even to protect him from—from Tony, from himself. If Steve wanted him, even still, it would be a betrayal of that. And if Steve still cared . . . he just couldn’t. He had to try.

 

Maybe it was selfish. Surely Steve would be better off without him. But hadn’t everything that had happened shown Tony that Steve would rather Tony didn’t make those decisions for him? Tony had . . . had shown, had told, Steve how broken and fucked up and _wrong_ he was, how . . . not worth it, this whole damn thing had been a fucking showcase of everything Steve hated the most about him, and Steve was still there. He couldn’t go over Steve’s head, cut everything off no matter what Steve had decided, after that. Steve wanted it. He had pursued Tony, fought for him, in his way. Tony . . . he had to try. Even if he didn’t understand why Steve wanted it. Him.

 

It wasn’t like he could do much worse, short of drinking again.

 

He’d already poured the whiskey he kept in his office to challenge himself down the toilet, weeks ago. He didn’t need the temptation right now, and he wasn’t going to turn back into a worthless drunk on top of everything else. Even if it meant he couldn’t even face it at the moment—being a coward was better than being drunk off his ass and useless. His stomach still hurt, when he thought about it.

 

He could at least try and face something. He could try and face this. He could find an answer for Steve, in himself, somewhere. Couldn’t he?

 

He could do that. And he could make it be a real one. He told himself he could.

 

For all his edging around the issue, he had the feeling he already had the answer. He did . . . he did want it. He didn’t know how or why, he didn’t have the slightest idea what Steve was going to want to do to him . . . but he wanted to find out. Whatever that meant, he really did. Maybe it would hurt after, and maybe he’d regret it, but he still wanted it, and if he backed out now, he’d feel like a coward, and a liar.

 

And he was trying not to be those things. For a change.

 

Tony swallowed hard, and pulled one of the notepads on his desk toward him, picked up a pen, and clicked the tip up. He licked his bottom lip, took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them again and wrote in his neatest handwriting, _Yes, Steve, I want you to hurt me in bed._

 

He put down the pen and stared down at it, and the words stared back, in black and white. They didn’t feel any less true now than they had a few seconds ago. Seeing them there, though, his throat went dry, and it was harder to breathe. He took a deep breath and blew it out, trying to defeat the sudden spike of adrenaline inside him, the faster beating of his heart, the sudden fear.

 

It was true. He did want it, even if that knowledge was currently twisting around his insides with cold, painful dread. He wanted it so badly there was something low in his chest, in his stomach, that ached for it. Steve’s hands on him. To be pushed down to his knees in front of him, wherever Steve wanted him, and held there. To feel Steve’s hands bringing him pain, bringing him—bringing him whatever Steve wanted.

 

 _Please_ , he found himself thinking, and it was almost terrifying, in its suddenness, its intensity, how strange it felt, how desperate. _Please please please please._ He had to brace himself against his desk with one hand, gasping for breath, at the sudden surge of need, of emotion. He’d never felt like he’d needed Steve this much in his life. Except, of course, except his darkest moments, after the lie, after the incursions had begun, and then he’d known that seeing him wouldn’t do any good, what he wanted was to bury his hands in Steve’s hair and kiss his pure, sweet mouth and lose himself in his hard, strong righteous goodness and be held by his strong arms, but none of that would work, touching him would feel like agony and burn Tony with his own guilt, turn him black and hateful with the poison all through him. But now—now it was different. He wasn’t different, but everything else was; Steve knew, and everything was over, and yet Tony’s whole body yearned for him like it was a need. He felt his eyes prickle and gasped, hard, on a wet breath, horrified with himself, braced his arm on one elbow and rubbed at his forehead. Sucked in a breath, held it, and then pushed it back out, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head until he felt calmer, if no less shaky, and his heart was pounding a little less fiercely. He brought his hand down over his face and took a deep breath, opened his eyes and looked at the words on the paper again.

 

They still made him feel shaky, a strange combination of warm all over and cold. His face felt hot. He tore the page off the pad of paper, folded it, and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

 

It was still true. Whatever it was about Steve . . . Tony was his. He wanted this. The idea of Steve’s hands on him, hurting him, rough, using him, shaping—shaping him just how Steve wanted, just made him feel warmer.

 

He took a deep breath, forced down a hard swallow, then got up to get his bottle of water and take a drink. He could handle it, he told himself, he could. He could handle it without melting down like an idiot, or making a fool of himself, on top of it. He could, and he was going to. Even if he still felt trembling and shaky inside, twisted up and a little bit like he was buzzing.

 

 _Come on, Stark, you still have to work the rest of the day_. What felt like world-altering personal revelations didn’t change that. He took a long swallow of the water, held it in his mouth, letting the coolness sink into him, focus his attention, tilted his head back and let it slide slowly down his throat.

 

Right. Back to work. He screwed the top back on the bottle and put it back in the fridge, went back to his desk, rubbing at Steve’s other note through his pants pocket with his thumb despite himself.

 

The rest of the day passed quickly, in a haze of work that he needed to have done _right away, please, Mr. Stark_ , uttered in tones of increasing desperation, vague panic and the need to always stay one step ahead. Stark International hadn’t been his again for very long, and since cutting ties with Resilient and fighting SHIELD for what remained of his old assets, he’d had a lot of work to do on the company.

 

He was willing to admit that it had mainly kept his mind off . . . other things. Rebuilding Stark for good, helping people with the company, their work, that was something he could do, that he knew how to do, that he could pour himself into. He could pay for biofiltration that would assure clean water here and clean up infrastructure there and pour money into educational programs for girls and lower income kids in the STEM fields and research biofuels and create new engines and all that was good, was something good he could do. But he needed money to do it, and that was tricky, because it was hard to get it if you weren’t going to play down at the other guys’ level, so . . . well, it took his mind off things. Like the ruined pieces of his life. Like the things he’d done. Like how he could no longer deny he was a festering husk of a man whose soul was tainted so black and dark he was surprised, some days, that he couldn’t see it in his face, in his eyes, that when he touched Steve his skin didn’t come away black like oil slick, black like a burn. The weapons he’d made. The ways he’d let himself twist and sink.

 

How little of him it felt like there was left. He’d spent so little time thinking about it, because it hurt, because nothing good came of it, but he felt so broken inside, like something had gone badly off its track and shattered inside him and the broken pieces were still in there, cutting him up into bits. He’d turned their own sun into a weapon, and he—he was—he’d intended to use it to destroy another universe. What did any of his good intentions, all his big, grandiose claims, his proud words, mean now? He hadn’t changed at all. Futurist, yeah, right.

 

He was still a merchant of death. He made things that hurt people, because that was who _he_ was. He hurt people. He told himself he was saving them. That he was doing what had to be done. But his arrogance didn’t make the things he did right. It—it never had.

 

So he worked. He did _good_ things. He tried to help. To create. He didn’t have anything else left. His brain had to be good for something. And he tried not to think about all the times he’d tried to do this, tried to make himself into something good, something better, tried to make something good out of himself, the dross scrap metal he was made out of, before.

 

He’d make it mean something this time. He had to. Or . . . .

 

He couldn’t think about that.

 

He hadn’t talked to too many people . . . since. Most people didn’t have much time for him these days. Pepper was off running her own company. Sure, it was part of his holdings, but . . . it felt strange. But then, he didn’t deserve her, anyway. She’d tried to talk to him since, and . . . he couldn’t let her see him like this. She didn’t deserve any part of this. She had a life. He wasn’t going to ruin that, to take that away from her, again. Rhodey . . . things had been hard, with Rhodey. He’d come to see Tony, of course. In the hospital. He’d hugged him, once, when Tony had been out of it and woozy with pain meds and he’d felt like no one would ever look at him again and Steve wouldn’t come back and Rhodey had slid an arm behind Tony’s shoulders, warm and solid even in the haze of the drugs, and bent over him, and said, “Hey, man, I’m here, I’m here, you’re good.” Or maybe Tony had partially dreamed that, but that wasn’t the point, the point was that Rhodey had been there—and that it hadn’t been his own finest moment, ugh, but . . . but that was the problem. He didn’t want to lean on Rhodey, either. He had things to do. He was doing . . . good. And he was still mad at Tony, anyway, and who wasn’t? He’d . . . fucked up. He thought Steve and Rhodey had talked more these days than Tony and Rhodey had. (Actually, he was pretty sure of that.) He was trying to be okay with that. Rhodey deserved . . . better friends than him, anyway. Mrs. Arbogast was working for Pepper, and that, that was perfect. He hadn’t even tried to contact her, and had rebuffed her offer to work for him here, even though he was sure she’d been offended by that, maybe even hurt. But she deserved the environment Pepper could give her. If she was offended by what Tony had done—that was good, that was better, wasn't it? If she wrote him off. Tony hadn’t even been able to look the other Avengers in the face. He was sure . . . sure they hated him, even more than Steve did. Why wouldn’t they? Steve forgiving him was a miracle enough on its own. He wasn’t about to look for more.

 

And Steve . . . until just the last couple of days, he hadn’t known what he was doing there, either. He still didn’t, to be honest, but he felt as if he had . . . as if things had changed, and even if he didn’t know what was going on, as if he’d shifted, too. Things felt warmer, stronger. He barely remembered what that felt like. What it felt like to see Steve’s smile and realize he knew everything, everything he could know, and he was still smiling. At him. At Tony. Himself. Before then, he’d felt empty, gray and lost, cold, Steve so far away, like he’d inevitably realize that this wasn’t working, that Tony could offer him nothing, and walk away. But somehow things had changed, and—

 

Anyway. Work was good. He needed it right now, he needed to be doing this. Spending his time creating things. Getting his hands dirty building and shaping and working, and no matter how exhausting it was, how demanding, how much work he had on his desk, he had to do this. Tony took a deep breath, and couldn’t help how his hand came up one last time to brush the piece of paper he’d put in his shirt pocket, then the other one, in his pants pocket, before he blew it out and turned back to the things he needed to do.

 

It actually surprised him, how he was able to focus after that, how much he got done. He made progress on every one of the projects on his desk, more than he’d expected, more than he’d made in a long time. It felt, somehow, like he could think again, more clearly than he had in, well, in weeks. The feeling of it was almost invigorating, and he didn’t realize how tired he was until he looked up and saw it was already 7 pm, and getting dark outside. He hadn’t realized it had gotten that late, somehow. When he ran a hand over his face and blinked into the dusk outside, he realized his eyes were burning, and he had a slight headache. He hadn’t even noticed until then, he’d been so caught up, riding the high of his thoughts coming fast and clear again, everything coming together in his head, in front of him.

 

Well, he hadn’t been getting much sleep lately. Well, more, with—since Steve, but he had really been pushing it, he guessed, with the stress. Sometimes over the past few weeks it had felt like no matter how much rest he got, the weight on his shoulders, pressing him down, kept getting heavier, kept anything from helping to work at all against that exhaustion that hung around him like some kind of sick shroud. But the last few days, things had—well, they’d changed a bit, somehow. It wasn’t like the weight, or the exhaustion, was _gone_ , but—things just felt different, like it was easier to shift, like he could breathe again.

 

Maybe he was just being stupid. And fanciful on top of that. Just talking to Steve, and—well, everything that had happened, it didn’t mean things were going to work out. Hell, after how embarrassing Tony had managed to be, he should probably feel more miserable and self-conscious over it than ever.

 

He couldn’t explain why it wasn’t affecting him that way. But it wasn’t. All he could see was the way Steve had looked at him—the warmth in his eyes, the way he had smiled. It made his throat close up just to think of it, his chest feel tight and warm. The feeling of Steve’s arms around him like that, warm and so, so strong and steadying—he’d never really believed he’d have that again. He still barely believed it, barely believed . . . any of this, but—but he wasn’t going to take it for granted, that was for sure. He wasn't going to—to take Steve for granted, he was so _fucking lucky_ that Steve still wanted anything to do with him that he couldn’t even believe it, and part of him just kept wondering why, what Steve could be getting out of this, out of—of him, but—it was like he’d thought before, it was Steve’s choice. He wasn’t going to sabotage it for him, except, well, by being himself, he thought a little bit bitterly, but he was going to try not to, he was going to try so, so hard for him. He was going to do everything he could, and that meant—

 

That meant he really needed to get home to Steve for the night. He’d already stayed there at work past the end of the day. Steve was probably there at the Tower wondering where he was, and—and he didn’t want to leave him hanging, leave him waiting, make him feel like Tony cared about work more than he did about him—

 

Tony was pulling his phone out of his pocket before he could think and punching in Steve’s cell number.

 

There was only one ring before it was picked up. “Tony?” came Steve’s voice, low and a little breathless.

 

Tony blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that response, exactly, not like that, that fast, or that—Steve didn’t sound eager, he told himself, that was—that was stupid.

 

Except maybe he did. Tony didn’t know anymore.

 

Maybe it wasn’t stupid. Maybe that made sense. He had no idea.

 

“Um,” he said, licking his lips as he stared into his own reflection in the darkening window of his office. “Yeah. It’s me. Sorry, I realized it was getting late, and I—just wanted to let you know I’d be home soon? I’m just leaving.” Now he felt stupid for calling. He should have just gone straight home—calling Steve just to tell him he was leaving now? He wasn’t some schoolkid checking in.

 

“Oh!” The exclamation sounded bright somehow, like Steve had perked up at that. “I’m glad you called. I bet you haven’t had a bite yet, have you?” he said in the next moment, before Tony could really analyze that tone of voice.

 

“Um,” Tony said. He was? Steve was glad he’d called? Oh. “Not—not really, no.”

 

“How do sandwiches from Tino’s sound?” Steve said. “I can pick ‘em up before you get home.”

 

“You don’t have to—” Tony started. “I mean, going out, it’s too much trouble—” Tino’s Italian subs were some of Tony’s favorites in the city, and just thinking about the huge stacks of perfectly cured meat, the creamy mozzarella and the roasted red peppers, the oil and vinegar soaking into the fresh crisp bread, had his mouth watering. He suddenly felt hungrier than he had in—well, in more than a month, now that he thought about it, had to be. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d felt hungry.

 

“It’s no trouble, Tony,” Steve said, firmly but still with that bright tone in his voice. “I was just thinking about getting one for myself. You know much I like that place.”

 

And it was true, Tony knew that—Steve did love Tino’s; the old-fashioned, cash-only deli with its red checked awnings was something he said he could have found in the city back in his day. Plus, Tino himself never had a problem with making the sandwiches extra big for Steve’s appetite, and often pressed an extra one on them for free once he’d seen the way Steve ate. “Well,” Tony hedged. “If you’re sure?”

 

“Sure I’m sure,” Steve said, upbeat and cheerful. “I’ll grab you some extra stuffed peppers; I know how much you love those. You want the Italian Special like usual?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony said, after a second. Of course he did. That was what he always got. He suddenly felt dizzy, it was strange, talking about what they were going to get to eat, like—like nothing had ever happened, memories of them at Tino’s, Steve with sauce across his mouth and extra meat on his sandwich and his eyes lighting up as Tino brought out his third, Tony rocking his chair back on its legs and laughing about something only to be scolded by the elderly man and told he’d crack his head open if he sat like that, or eating together on the sofa or down in Tony’s workshop, they’d—they’d done that so much, they knew all of each other’s favorite foods, their usual orders. Tony could have ordered Steve a dozen of his favorites from all his favorite restaurants without even thinking about it. He still remembered their first date, when he’d taken Steve out to his favorite Japanese restaurant. It was—it was a good memory. It didn’t hurt, thinking about it, as much as it might have, even the day before. As much as he might have expected it to. “Yeah, that’d—that’d be perfect.”

 

“Okay, got it,” Steve said. His voice sounded warm, light—happy, Tony thought, a little dazedly. Steve sounded happy. “You get yourself home, mister. I’ll see you soon?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony managed. “Uh, yeah. Sure thing.”

 

“See you then, then,” Steve said, and Tony made an agreeable noise, then pushed the button to end the call.

 

He sat there, staring at the phone in his hand, for a long moment. He didn’t know what to think, his head felt dizzy and almost blank.

 

He was going to go home. He and Steve were going to eat together. It didn’t—fit in his head. Like there was some kind of short, or bad circuit, that just skipped whenever he got to that part. How—how could this be real? It was something that happened to another Tony Stark. In another life. A life where he might have, maybe, deserved Steve somehow. Before he’d ruined everything. Before he’d showed what he truly was. Before he’d let himself become what he was now.

 

Steve had brought him breakfast just this morning, Tony’s mind pointed out. And the morning before that. Why was this so different? Why did it feel so much more confusing?

 

Maybe it was because that wasn’t normal. Steve bringing him breakfast, it was sweet, so damn sweet it made Tony’s throat close up and his chest hurt, because he didn’t deserve it, but—Steve had never done that before. But doing this, getting sandwiches, eating together, they’d done this all the time. Before. If he didn’t think about it, he could—he could pretend that nothing had changed.

 

Tony’s breath thickened up in his throat, bunched up hot and tight until he could barely breathe. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do that. Everything was different now, and there was no going back.

 

He pushed himself up to his feet, and went to slide his phone back in his pocket, gather up his papers and other things and head home. He felt cold, as that thought seemed to settle into him, seep through his body. Cold and tired. There really was no going back, and how could he be stupid enough to think that even giving Steve everything, everything he had, would be enough?

 

He only realized he was shivering as he shrugged into his jacket. The building was abandoned, everyone else had gone home long ago, and it felt strange, echoing around him as he went down the elevator to the garage. He watched the floors pass quickly and tried not to think about how much he felt a kinship with the empty building, hollowed out inside, only half lit.

 

Steve still wanted him, he reminded himself on the way home, knuckles braced against his lips as he watched the city go by and struggled to think straight. Wasn’t that what all this was about?

 

 _Steve just wants the other Tony_ , part of his mind suggested, _the one you created for him, when you could hide it. What you really are. Before he knew the truth. The one he loved._ Because—it was true. He had tried so hard. To be good for Steve. To be better than he really was, as if he could ever be what Steve deserved. But still. Better than Tony Stark, to be Iron Man, the friend Steve cared for, respected, the Avenger, the noble knight, funny, and charming, and adventurous, someone Steve could, could love.

 

But that was all over now. Steve had seen through all the lies, seen what Tony really was, and he’d been horrified by it. By him. Disgusted. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, and Tony—Tony couldn’t blame him. How could he ever blame him for that? Steve was just lying to himself, telling himself he could—he could get the old Tony back, like if he peeled this blackened husk that was Tony away, he’d find that person he remembered, find old Shellhead again. When all that had ever been was a lie.

 

The broken husk was all Tony was now, and inside it was nothing but broken pieces that didn’t function the way they should, not anymore. He had nothing to offer.

 

And yet he still wanted Steve. Dreamed of him, yearned to touch him, his eyes stung when he thought of him, his generosity, his smile, he—how selfish could he even be? What was he doing? Why hadn’t he gotten far away from him, pushed Steve away, Steve—Steve should hate him. Steve _should_ hate him, and here he was, convincing himself that they could still have something, there was nothing worse, Tony had never sunk lower, he—

 

He didn’t know what to do. It was Steve’s decision, he thought again, desperately. Steve wanted him, or thought he did. Maybe if Tony just—just submitted for him, let him have everything, Steve would—he would see. Tony wouldn’t be able to hide anything from him anymore. Steve would take him apart and he would _know_. He would know how there was nothing else, nothing left to give.

 

And then if he stayed—no. No, he wouldn’t stay. That was stupid. Tony knew better than that. It was impossible. But then it would be Steve’s decision to go. Not Tony being high-handed, deciding for him, thinking he knew best. It would all be Steve. Then Steve would _really_ be free of him. He would know the truth, and he would walk away, and no longer wonder—no longer resent Tony for trying to tell him the truth.

 

It would be perfect. Tony’s head hurt, his eyes stung, and his throat ached. He felt like he wanted to cry. But it was. Perfect. Everything would be better then.

 

 _What will you do, then, when Steve is gone? Really gone? For good?_ that part of his mind asked him. _Fall apart? Crawl back into the bottle?_

 

No. No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t, not ever again. He would—he would start over from zero. He would be—he would work harder than ever. He wouldn’t be an Avenger anymore, of course, but he could—he could still help.

 

And maybe, someday, if he worked hard enough, if he had enough—enough strength, even though he would never even look at Steve again, he would be someone who Steve thought of with something other than bitterness, or regret. Someone—someone he could be, what, not proud of, not that—not, not ashamed, that he had once called him friend. That they had shared their bodies, once.

 

Suddenly, he was almost anxious for it. To get started. To have Steve see all of him, and know that there was nothing he could have hidden, have held back, to fall and lie prostrate at Steve’s feet and know that Steve had wrung it all from him, that there was nothing he had held back, and Steve had it all. Even if Steve, if he rejected him then, he would _know_. And that—that would be. That would feel like freedom. Finally.

 

“Are you okay, boss?” It was his driver’s voice. Not—not Happy. Never Happy again. Another thing Tony had to pay for. That he could never fix. This driver was a woman.

 

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Of course. Sorry.”

 

“No need to be sorry,” came the reply. “Just wondering.” They drove in silence for another few moments, and then the driver said, “Okay, we’re here.” She peered out the windshield. “Looks like the wind’s picking up,” she said. “You go on, get inside.”

 

“You too,” Tony said, “don’t wait around. Get home. And here—” he dug in his pocket, fumbled out his wallet, pressed a hundred dollar bill into her hand “—that’s a tip. Thanks for the ride.”

 

“Boss—Mr. Stark, sir, look, you pay me enough,” she was starting, but he waved it off.

 

“Keep it,” he said, “I mean it.”

 

He got out of the car. The wind was harsh, picking up, like she’d said. It cut right through his jacket and left him shivering in seconds. He hoped Steve was back inside already, he hated to think of him out in this, Steve so didn’t like the cold. The first droplets of rain were starting to splatter as Tony hurried through the doors. He cast a dubious glance back at the night outside, dark and really starting to rain now. He sure hoped Steve wasn’t out in that, just to get Tony a stupid sandwich. Still shivering a little, he moved toward the elevator and keyed in his floor. Or maybe he should go to Steve’s? No—no, he’d change first, then check in on Steve, if he wasn’t already in Tony’s room. Of course, he could go in there whenever he wanted. Tony’d been certain to make that clear, even after—even lately. His suite was never off-limits to Steve.

 

Maybe he would be in Tony’s room, maybe he understood that—that Tony wanted him there. Either way. Maybe Tony should be prepared for that, maybe—maybe he should calm down, and stop making this into a big deal before he screwed this up, too. Tony took a deep breath, pushed his hair back out of his face, and keyed his door open.

 

The scent of food hit him even before he saw Steve, seated at the sofa laying out the sandwiches on plates on the coffee table, and he swallowed, nearly swallowed his tongue. His stomach growled a moment later, and he flushed, self-consciously covering it with one hand as if that would quiet it, even as Steve looked up and flashed him a smile so dazzling and sincere Tony forgot what he was doing, forgot how to think, for what must have been a good thirty seconds.

 

“There you are,” Steve said. “I was hoping you hadn’t been caught out in the rain.”

 

It took a second for his brain to start working again, and he scraped it back together, searched for something to say. “I was—I was hoping the same thing,” Tony said, with a laugh that sounded nervous and uncertain even to him.

 

“Yeah, it’s been getting colder,” Steve said with a smile. “I guess you’re pretty hungry?” His smile turned warm, as he nodded toward Tony’s midsection a little.

 

“Yeah,” Tony said, with another shamefaced laugh. “Time got away from me, I guess.” He hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until that moment, but now the empty ache in his belly seemed insistent, demanding. Had he had anything for lunch? He didn’t think he’d eaten lunch for—

 

For at least a week. He hadn’t even thought of it until just now.

 

Steve patted the place next to him on the sofa, and Tony felt himself freeze. Steve wanted him to sit there? They’d . . . practically be touching, their knees would brush, and—it suddenly felt overwhelmingly close. He swallowed again, then managed, somehow, to get himself moving forward.

 

He could do this, they’d been having sex, for Christ’s sake. Steve had held him for what must have been at least an hour last night. He was being stupid.

 

He blew his breath out and managed to relax as he shrugged out of his suit jacket and laid it over the arm of the sofa, then sat down at Steve’s side. “So, what’ve we got?” he said.

 

“Well, everything you asked for,” Steve teased. “It’s a little late for coffee, so I got you some hot chocolate instead. Too cold for soda pop.” He picked up one of the Styrofoam cups on the coffee table and pressed it into Tony’s hand. Tony noticed there were also cups of water on the table—Steve really did think of everything.

 

“Thanks,” Tony murmured, and pried the lid off. The scent of the cocoa was rich and dark, and he bit down on his bottom lip as it hit him.

 

Wow, when was the last time he’d bothered to eat chocolate? It felt warm in his hand, but not too hot, so he took a sip.

 

Sure, it was diner hot chocolate, but the cocoa Tino had used was thick and dark, and it tasted—it tasted incredible. “Mmm,” Tony said, before he thought. “That’s nice.”

 

When he looked over at Steve again, he was beaming. Tony faltered, not quite sure what he’d done that could have brought that smile to his face, or why, but Steve was already gesturing to the table. “That’s yours,” he said, “and the extra peppers are right there.” He picked up a fork and pointed with it. “I got yours with extra mozzarella and sundried tomatoes.”

 

Mozzarella was Tony’s favorite. “Extra cheese, Steve, please,” he said. “I’ll get too fat to fit in the suit.” But he was already reaching for the sandwich. He could practically already taste it. Damn, he was hungry.

 

Steve scoffed audibly, already taking a bite of his own sandwich. He chewed, swallowed, then said, “You can take a break from the bean sprout and tofu salads, Tony. Right now a good strong breeze would blow you all the way to Timbuktu, I swear to God.”

 

“I haven’t been—” Tony thought back to the last meal he’d consumed without Steve’s input. As in, without Steve bringing it to him and watching him eat it.

 

There might have been a bean sprout salad involved. And a handful of nuts. And not much else. “Err,” he said. “That’s overstating things.”

 

“Coffee isn’t food, Tony,” Steve said.

 

“It’s fat free,” Tony pointed out. And it was. He drank his black.

 

“I read,” Steve said, “that avoiding fat doesn’t actually help you lose weight. Not that you need to. Need to put on some muscle.”

 

Tony gave him a look. “Where were you reading diet books?” he asked.

 

“Health books,” Steve said, flushing a little now. “It was one of yours.”

 

That . . . was actually pretty cute. Sweet, even. “Fair enough,” Tony allowed, and took a bite of the sandwich.

 

It was _amazing_. Flavor exploded on his tongue, the mozzarella rich and creamy, the meat was so salty and perfect it almost melted on his tongue, the oil and vinegar making his mouth water, the tomatoes and peppers rich and meaty. He thought he might have groaned, and didn’t care. It was _so good_.

 

In the back of his mind, he wondered when he’d forgotten that food could taste like this. He chewed carefully, not wanting to waste a second of it. When he finally swallowed, it was incredibly satisfying. “Oh, wow,” he heard himself say, and took another bite.

 

The next time he looked up, Steve was grinning at his own sandwich like it was the best thing he’d ever seen. Well, Tony thought distractedly, they were pretty good, and picked up one of the forks to go for the peppers. He washed it down with a swallow of water and went back to his sandwich.

 

By the time he’d finished half of it, Steve was finished with his first sandwich and was unwrapping his second. “What’d you get?” Tony asked, suddenly curious if he would have guessed right.

 

“American special,” Steve said, a little sheepishly, “and a meatball parm.”

 

Tony would have been right. He smiled and ate another pepper. “Your usual,” he said.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said. “I was in the mood.” He was smiling a little, soft and private, as he looked at Tony. “Glad you were, too,” he said after a moment.

 

“You’re always in the mood,” Tony pointed out, and Steve laughed.

 

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I’m a simple kind of guy.”

 

“When it comes to food, anyway,” Tony said, ruefully, and Steve smiled a little more.

 

“That’s fair,” he said, and took another bite of his own sandwich.

 

Not really about much else, Tony thought, and definitely not about sex, and then to cover the thought took another swallow of cocoa. “I, uh,” he said, before he really thought about what he was saying. “You do like some things outside the New York standard,” he said. “You, uh, you want to go get Japanese again sometime?”

 

“Japanese is practically the New York standard now,” Steve said, “but it sure wasn’t in my time. You’re right. Can we go to that nice little place again?” And now he sounded eager.

 

The restaurant Tony had taken him to on their—on their first date. Could he really mean that? “You mean Iwasaki?” Tony said.

 

“That’s it,” Steve said, and he sounded happy. Enthusiastic, even if his voice was soft. “I loved that place. The food was so good there.” When Tony looked up at him, his eyes were on Tony, and a soft flush came up over his features. “And it was . . . romantic,” he said. “I—I mean. Private.”

 

It was romantic. And private. That was why Tony had taken Steve there. Well, and because he thought Steve would get a real kick out of _shabu-shabu_ , and he had. But that was the other reason. Tony bit his bottom lip. “It’s very private there,” he agreed, and his voice came out low. “Quiet. I’ll tell Iwasaki-san you remembered it.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Do that.” He was still looking at Tony. “I do love Japanese food,” he said. “You take me to the best places.”

 

“And the worst,” Tony said, his throat suddenly thick.

 

“More of ‘em are good though,” Steve said. “It balances out.”

 

Huh. “You think so?” Tony asked. How could it—how could it possibly do that?

 

“I do,” Steve said.

 

His voice was nothing but pure honesty.

 

“Besides,” he said, with more humor in his voice, “if you think you’ve taken me to the worst places I’ve ever been, Stark, you’ve got another think coming.”

 

Tony felt himself laugh at that. “Oh, yeah?” he asked, shooting a glance over at Steve again.

 

Steve grinned at him. “ _Oh_ , yeah,” he said.

 

Tony laughed again and took another bite of his sandwich. It still tasted so good. “Tell me about these worse places,” he said, when he was done savoring it.

 

“Tony,” Steve said, sounding pained. “I’m _eating_.” He gave Tony a reproachful look over his meatball parm.

 

“Right, right,” Tony said, smiling again, somehow. “Sorry. Can’t do anything to jeopardize that. All important.”

 

“That’s right,” Steve said. “Eat up.” He followed his own advice and took another bite.

 

Tony surprised himself by finishing the entire sandwich without even stopping to think about it. Sandwiches from Tino’s were big. He must have really been hungry. He took another stuffed pepper and ate it, just enjoying the flavor, then took a sip of water, another swallow of his cocoa.

 

This had been so good. It wasn’t as if he felt like his thoughts from earlier weren’t true anymore, things just . . . felt different. He sighed and sat back, cradling his cocoa in his hands.

 

Steve was still eating, finishing his sandwich. Tony waved a hand at the peppers. “If you want a few,” he said. “I’m not going to be finishing them all.”

 

“Are you sure?” Steve asked, looking at him oddly seriously. Nonplussed, Tony nodded.

 

“Sure I’m sure,” he said.

 

“Thank you,” Steve said, then reached for one of the peppers. “Mmm,” he said, as he bit into it. He still looked happy, contented.

 

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Tony said, a little uncomfortable, “you know. Just to have dinner.”

 

“What?” Steve said. “Oh, I didn’t. Time just got away from me, is all.” He frowned a little. “I can’t seem to escape from having to do paperwork,” he added with a sigh.

 

“I’d handle it for you if—” Tony started, and then remembered exactly what he’d done, exactly why Steve might not want him around any Avengers paperwork at all, sensitive or otherwise. “If I could,” he finished, faltering.

 

If Steve had noticed his stuttering hesitation, he didn’t say anything. “I know you would, Shellhead,” he said. “But you have enough on your plate right now.”

 

Tony bit at the inside of his lip again. He wanted to say that he—that he didn’t, that he could always make time for the Avengers. But he wasn’t even sure if he was an Avenger right now. Really. Not just—not just provisionally. Because Steve didn’t want to take him off the team, and the others felt too awkward to contradict him.

 

He hadn’t suited up with the team for—since they’d come back. He still got the Avengers alerts, he listened to them, every time—if they really needed him, he figured he’d go. But they hadn’t. Things had been—almost quiet. Well, except for Dr. Doom, and HYDRA, and the Wrecking Crew had popped up a few times, but that was business as usual. He was pretty sure. Anyway, he could deal with the Doom thing on his own.

 

And right now, Stark really did need him. It was going to take a lot of careful attention to build the company back up, to make it capable of doing all the things he wanted to do. He swallowed and toyed with the stem of another pepper, dragging it around on the plate for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally agreed. “I guess so.”

 

“It’s all right, Tony,” Steve said, quietly.

 

Was it, though?

 

He’d suited up plenty of times since he came back, but Tony suddenly realized he missed suiting up alongside Steve, so much it—it made him ache, inside, behind his collarbone on down to his belly. It didn’t feel right.

 

He missed hearing Steve’s battle cry.

 

But that was no one’s fault but his own, was it?

 

Tony sighed and ate the pepper. It struck him, as he swallowed it and took another sip of cocoa, that he’d been eating bland, or at least spectacularly unmemorable, food, except for Steve’s ideas of breakfast, for so long that this rich stuff might not sit too well, and that Steve might want to—be expecting things to heat up a little, after this. Tony had sure been planning on that. He reached up, touched the note he’d put in his shirt pocket despite himself. Not—he didn’t think he was ready to give it to Steve yet, to tell him, but—he’d still thought . . . .

 

Well, he decided, if Steve wanted it, he wanted it. They’d cross that bridge when they came to it, or . . . whatever. He just hoped his stomach didn’t give him any trouble if they did.

 

He wanted to finish this cocoa first, anyway.

 

“How was work today?” Steve asked, and surprised him.

 

“Huh?” he asked, inarticulately, then felt himself flush as he looked up at Steve again. He just . . . hadn’t expected that question, that was all. Steve hadn’t really asked him about Stark, not since he’d gotten it back.

 

“You said,” Steve said, and gestured, “you had a, a contract. You seemed kind of worried about it.”

 

Oh. He hadn’t realized Steve was paying that much attention, to be honest. Hadn’t thought he’d remember.

 

“Yeah,” he said, “with Beneco.”

 

“Well,” Steve said, looking at him, expectant, prompting, “did you get it?”

 

“Um,” Tony said. “We don’t know yet, but it looks promising. If they agree, we’ll sign the paperwork tomorrow.”

 

“I bet it was your eyelashes,” Steve said, smiling, all warm and flirtatious, and to Tony’s own surprise, he felt his cheeks heat up.

 

“Yeah, well,” he said, and took another quick swallow of cocoa. “Maybe so.”

 

“It’s been rough, hasn’t it?” Steve asked, after another moment. “Getting Stark back. Making it work again.”

 

Tony shrugged. Well, sure, it hadn’t been easy, but that was what he did. It was what he—what he had to do. Maybe it had been—well, it had been requiring a lot of long hours at the office, but that was what he needed right now, anyway, wasn’t it? He might have gone out of his mind if he hadn’t—hadn’t had something to do with himself. Something that he could tell himself was going to help.

 

No, it _was_ going to help.

 

It was like the numbers, designs, inventions, equations, never left his mind anymore, even when he was half asleep, except when—well, when he was with Steve, and worrying about something completely different, or when he was thinking about—about—

 

But it was better. It was better than thinking about _that_ , that was for sure. His neck felt tight, his shoulders. They always did, these days.

 

“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s what I do.”

 

“I don’t think I realized,” Steve said, quietly. “I thought you were just—” He shrugged. “Making busy work.”

 

“I have to do something with myself,” Tony said, surprised by how much that stung. “It might not as be as important as being an Avenger, but—” it was better than making weapons, that was for damn sure. He suddenly felt himself trembling.

 

“No,” Steve said. “No, Tony, I—didn’t mean that. That was thoughtless. I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s true,” Tony said, with a sigh that made him feel just . . . so tired. Exhausted. He felt cold again. He rubbed at his forehead with one hand. “I guess.”

 

“No, it isn’t,” Steve said. “I know that. I know better than that. Tony—”

 

He touched Tony’s back, and Tony almost jumped. He felt himself make a strangled, startled sound, but then Steve’s hand was on his shoulder, rubbing there gently, then at the back of his neck. Tony felt like he could feel that touch in every millimeter of his body. He wondered if he was still trembling. Trembling again. He thought he might be.

 

“What are you doing at the company right now?” Steve asked.

 

He couldn’t possibly actually want to know that, could he? Tony looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “It’s pretty technical,” he said.

 

Steve’s jaw set. That was the end of that argument, then. “Try me,” Steve said.

 

“There’s a new engine,” Tony said, because it was clear that Steve wouldn’t leave it alone otherwise. “Supposed to run greener, it’s a—a hybrid. And there’s a couple things in the works for new biofuels. Infrastructure designs, pipes and scaffolds so that buildings would be—anyway, it should solve some problems with city maintenance. Natural disasters, you know—well, things lately gave me the—the idea. And I’m working on a biofiltration system . . .” he came lamely to a stop. “Kind of hoping to use the engine sales to fund the rest of it for a while,” he admitted. “I’ve got that prototype squared away. I’d rather go completely electric, but I don’t want to compete with Resilient just now.” That’d be kind of a shitty move. He sighed. “Might be able to partner with them to put in some electrical refueling stations on roadways, though. Oh, and SHIELD wants a variation of it for the helicarriers,” he added. “But that might take me a while.”

 

“Huh,” Steve said. “I haven’t heard anything about that. Have they been hassling you? Giving you a hard time?”

 

They had been . . . pretty persistent. It was starting to give Tony a headache just thinking about it. “Nah,” he said. “No more than usual.”

 

Steve’s frown darkened, then his face lightened again, softened somehow. “Well, I’m no genius engineer,” he said, “but that all sounds pretty important to me.”

 

Tony shrugged. “I just wanted,” he started before he thought, then cut himself off. He couldn’t say that to Steve. How he’d just wanted to build something again. Something good. That wasn’t—wasn’t meant to destroy. He swallowed and looked down at his cup.

 

Everything Steve did was good. Steve _was_ good. He just . . . he _was_. Tony could never hope to measure up.

 

“I don’t know,” Tony muttered helplessly.

 

“Tony,” Steve said, and the tone in his voice brought Tony’s head up despite himself.

 

Steve ran his hand up along the back of Tony’s neck, rubbed gently there with his thumb, and it sent a shudder all the way through Tony’s body, and that was before Steve leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his temple, curving his hand gently around the side of his neck.

 

“Everything you do is important,” he said. “You keep on building the future, sweetheart. We need you.”

 

Tony felt his voice fail, something twist and lock up inside his chest, like his heart was beating too hard and fast, even though it technically couldn’t. He felt cold, hot at the same time. “Don’t, Steve,” he managed to choke out. “Don’t. I—I know what I am.”

 

Steve pulled back, but didn’t let go of him. He blinked at him, as if he was confused, but—but how could he be confused? How could he not remember? It was Steve who—

 

“A merchant of death,” Tony managed to get out. “Just, a, a—” there weren’t any words bleak enough, were there? Everything he touched seemed to turn to destruction. He kept trying to build, but—

 

But look at where that had gotten all of them.

 

Steve was looking at him oddly. “Tony,” he said, quickly, urgently, “you _saved_ us.”

 

“Everything you called me,” Tony said, “was absolutely true.”

 

“No, it wasn’t, I—” Steve broke off, took a deep breath. “Tony, I was wrong,” he said, more evenly. Firmly. With conviction.

 

“I was a liar,” Tony said, thickly. “A traitor. A—a parasite in the ranks of the Avengers, like some kind of—of sick insect—I lied—lied to _you_ , while we were—the things I was willing to do were—I was going to do them, Steve. I was ready to do them. And I, I should have—” _died_ , he thought, dully. He had never intended to live. He had never intended to be here, now.

 

“So, what,” Steve said, and now he sounded almost angry. “That’s it for you? You came back from making weapons before, Tony. You were going to redeem yourself. You’ve spent your whole—your whole adult life being a hero. You can’t do it again?”

 

“I—I proved what I was,” Tony said, and now he felt sick. “When I, I—went back to it.” _When I lied to you_ , he thought, but then, he’d never stopped lying, had he? That had never been something he left behind. “That it’d all been for nothing. I haven’t changed at all.”

 

“Even I never thought that,” Steve said, and he sounded so angry, so furious, that Tony looked up at him and saw his face alight, his eyes blazing. “I _know_ who you are, Tony, even if you can’t remember it right now.”

 

“What’s that?” Tony asked, hardly daring to ask the question.

 

“A goddamned hero,” Steve snarled.

 

Tony stared at him. For a moment he couldn’t even believe what he’d heard, and then he felt himself go cold, then hot, and was afraid, for a moment, that there were tears in his eyes, that he was going to cry. “I’m not,” he said, and it came out helpless, broken. “Steve, don’t—don’t lie to yourself about me.”

 

“I’m not,” Steve said, jaw tight, “trust me.” And then his shoulders loosened, slumped. “Aw, hell,” he said. “I was going to make sure nothing got too heavy, tonight.” He shrugged, gestured at the food. “Figured we could both use a break.”

 

Tony took the reprieve that he offered with a shuddery, painful breath. He closed his eyes shut tight for one, two seconds, then opened them again, and tried to ignore how his lashes felt wet, especially along the underside of his eyes. He didn’t know what to think about anything Steve had just said. It didn’t feel real. His mind stuttered along it, couldn’t seem to process it. “I—” he said, not sure what to say. “It—it’s all right, Steve.”

 

Steve sighed. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. I screwed up.” He turned his gaze on Tony and smiled a little, though. “And I do think what you’re doing is important.”

 

“I guess that’s your business,” Tony said, shakily.

 

“No,” Steve insisted, “I really do.”

 

Tony just stared at him, feeling like his mind wasn’t working, like it was caught somewhere. He didn’t know what to make of any of this.

 

Steve blew his breath out, gave a sad, rueful sort of smile, and leaned forward to brush his knuckles gently along the side of Tony’s face. “You look like I socked you in the jaw,” Steve said.

 

“That’s kind of what it feels like,” Tony admitted.

 

“I’m sorry, Shellhead,” Steve said, sounding even more rueful. He’d dropped his hand, but he hadn’t moved back. He was still so—so close, and Tony couldn’t seem to think.

 

“Don’t be,” he finally managed to say through nerveless lips. Steve shouldn’t—shouldn’t be sorry, shouldn’t have to be sorry. He had nothing to be sorry for. He had been nothing but generous to Tony, when Tony didn’t deserve any of it. Hell, buying him dinner alone was just—somehow Tony managed to swallow.

 

Steve’s hand fell to his shoulder and squeezed. “Take it easy, huh?” he said, and then moved to stand up. He started to clear up the food.

 

“I might—” Tony’s voice was raspy, failed. He cleared his throat, tried again. “I might take a shower.”

 

Steve nodded. “Sounds good,” he said.

 

Tony watched what Steve was doing, and it suddenly felt—wrong to watch him clear up. “Look, I can do that,” he started, and reached for the bag.

 

Steve curled his hand around his wrist, surprisingly gently for how quick he’d moved. “I can do it,” he said with a smile. “Take your shower.”

 

“You’re the one who went out and got it,” Tony explained, “the least I can do is—”

 

He stopped when Steve squeezed his wrist lightly. “It’s all right,” he said, still in that rather gentle voice. “I don’t mind.”

 

“I—” Tony started, and stopped again.

 

“It’s fine,” Steve said, then smiled, his voice dropping into his more normal register. “Go on now, mister. I’ll wait out here, if that’s okay.”

 

Wait—right. That made sense. Then Tony could—like usual, they would have sex. That—yeah, okay, it made sense. “It’s okay,” he said, and managed a smile. God, he had to pull himself together. “See you soon, then.” He got to his feet and picked up his suit jacket, then headed for the closet to hang it up before he started for the bathroom. He brushed his hand against the paper folded up in his shirt pocket as he did, and swallowed.

 

He knew his answer to Steve’s question. So when was he going to tell Steve?

 

Not tonight. It made him feel like a coward, but—he just wanted something else, tonight. Another day before things would . . . what, would change?

 

A chance to show Steve he could please him even without . . . all that.

 

Tony shook his head at himself. As if he could do that anymore. Even without all his . . . problems, lately, sexually, as if Steve could ever be pleased by him, after what he’d done—

 

But maybe he could . . . could give him pleasure. With his own hands, and mouth, and body, not—not anything fancy. Just pleasing him. He’d like that, he thought.

 

With that thought in mind, he took the note out of his pocket, smoothed it nervously, then tucked it into the drawer with his clean shirts, between the top one and the one just beneath it, tucked the piece of paper with his answer for Steve in just beneath. That done, he unlaced his shoes and wiped them off, put them away, tossed his socks in his laundry basket, undid his tie and hung it up, absently unbuttoning his top few buttons, before he got out a pair of boxer briefs and a t-shirt. He probably wouldn’t be wearing clothes too long after the shower, but he added his pajama pants anyway. It was a little chilly. Steve was in the kitchenette, running water over a plate, when Tony came back out into the living area, and didn’t look up. Tony spared a moment to just look at him, his strong back as it tapered to his waist, broad shoulders, his muscular arms, his hair tousled a bit messily as if he hadn’t bothered to comb it back into order. He was wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants, but they didn’t do much to obscure the lines of his body. He was so beautiful he made Tony’s chest ache, so sweet to be doing this—all of this, he was so generous, and Tony just, he—

 

He loved him. God help him, he loved him so much.

 

But then, even if he had believed in a god, any god, he wasn’t sure how any deity would be supposed to stop him, stop that. And he didn’t want to stop loving Steve, either, how could—how could anyone stop loving Steve? How could anyone want to? Tony’s longstanding, helpless adoration was only what Steve deserved, how could Tony even _be_ Tony and respond to him any differently?

 

It just—it hurt. Deep in his chest, and deeper, deeper until, fanciful as it was, it felt like it reached into his soul. He ached with it through every fiber of his being.

 

But that was just because he wasn’t good enough. He never could be. That hurt, the pain—it wasn’t because of Steve, it wasn’t Steve’s fault, it was just—it was all because of Tony. His faults. His failings. Tony sighed and headed into the bathroom to get started on his shower.

 

The shower finally chased away the last of the chill the cold day had layered on top of the chill that seemed to never leave him now, like it had settled into his bones. He frowned down at his body, considering, as he soaped up. He was still a little underweight, true enough, but some of it was coming back. He’d have to make sure to put in some extra workout time in the gym to make sure he didn’t get soft, and any weight he put on came back as muscle. He ran shampoo up into his hair, still thinking about when he could work that time in, what sorts of workouts he needed to do, before he closed his eyes and started to scrub with more vigor. He didn’t want to stay in here too long, just—

 

He’d just needed a moment, to get his breath back. He made himself take a few deep breaths, blow them out, until he could feel his heart starting to calm, until he felt more steady, less—less dizzy. He could do this. He was going to clean up, go back out there, and see if Steve wanted—well, if Steve wanted things to heat up. And he probably would; Steve had an eager appetite for sex, he never pushed, but—he was very enthusiastic, most of the time, when Tony offered. It was good, to feel that. To know that at least one way, Steve still wanted him, even with all his—problems, in that area, all his . . . inabilities lately, he was still capable of pleasing him.

 

Tony sighed and scowled at his dick. It was a problem he’d had off and on over the years, true enough, he’d put his body through a lot, but he was physically much better these days, and it was embarrassing, and he knew it worried Steve. He cared more on that front, he didn’t care so much for himself, he didn’t _want_ to come so much for himself these days, it felt like a waste of time and energy when he’d rather focus on Steve’s pleasure than worry about how he felt, but—it was just one more way he was broken, when in the middle of sex he started to go soft, or he just couldn’t make himself come no matter how close he was or how much he wanted it.

 

He sighed. Well, it didn’t matter, he could still make Steve happy, either way. Tony shook his head at himself and washed the shampoo out of his hair, shampooed it a second time, let his mind wander a bit as the spray hit him and he moved through his routine, then stopped, stopped in mid-movement, practically froze, as something Steve had said struck him just as he was reaching for his conditioner.

 

Steve had—just now, he had talked about what Tony had done as if he thought Tony could make up for it. As if he knew how Tony felt about making weapons and thought that he could—maybe—make amends. For what he’d done. And sure, maybe this was worse, than what Tony had done before, because he knew, he _knew_ what he’d done, this time, had known it while he did it, while he’d lied, and—betrayed them, but Steve knew that better than anyone, and if he thought, maybe, Tony could, could work for it enough, could _earn_ his way back—

 

Steve had been the angriest of anyone, of all of them, and of course he had, Tony had hurt him the worst, had lied to him, had gone to his arms lying to him, to his bed, calling him sweetheart and honey and all the rest of it, loving and worshipping him as if—and still lying to him, and he had—Steve had every right to be angry. To never forgive him. Steve had high standards, for all of them, surely if he thought Tony could make up for what he’d done—

 

There was actually some kind of hope?

 

Tony swallowed and felt faint again, as he massaged his conditioner into his hair. Maybe it would take forever, take years, but Steve had definitely implied that, hadn’t he? And thinking of it that way, it didn’t seem so impossible. Sure, it felt like starting over, from worse than zero, but—but he could do that. At least he’d have a direction. Someplace to go. Something to be working towards. Maybe without Steve beside him, in the end, but still—it was something. If even Steve thought so.  That he could—that he could—like he’d already been thinking, he had to keep working, couldn’t give up, but maybe he could, someday, and Steve would look at him and think—

 

Better not to dwell on that. But he hadn’t really thought that Steve would—could be thinking about it like that, even now, and if _Steve_ thought so . . . .

 

The thought settled, warm, in his belly, running under his skin, almost comforting. It felt good, almost like a talisman he could clutch to his heart. To remind him. That there was hope. The thought was almost overwhelming.

 

Tony thought he might be about to cry. His eyes were wet and stinging, and his throat felt tight, his chest aching. Maybe Steve was right, and he _could_ do it again. Could—could be a hero again.

 

Maybe Shellhead wasn’t as dead as he’d thought.

 

He braced his hands on the wall of the shower and took a couple deep breaths. No need to get carried away. He could do better, do everything right again, and that didn’t mean things would go back to being better, or good, with Steve. He didn’t expect that, or deserve it. But maybe they could be friends again, at least. Steve seemed to think so, and—

 

Well, Tony thought, Steve was the one he’d hurt. Steve would know. Did he deserve it? Of course he didn’t. But maybe he _could_. Eventually.

 

Steve was giving him more than a chance.

 

Tony wiped at his eyes, at his face, not sure why everything felt so different when he thought about it that way. His plan for the future, it hadn’t really changed. How he would keep trying to work to make up for it, for everything, to work hard, to be better—but he felt so different from his bleak imaginings in the car that he could hardly believe it. Everything felt different.

 

How could Steve keep doing this to him? He’d given Tony so much, and after Tony had hurt him, so badly. And now he’d given him this strange feeling of hope, that seemed to well up inside him, trembling through every inch of him, under his skin, and—

 

Tony just hadn’t done enough for Steve since he’d come back. That was the truth. He just hadn’t . . . known what to do, how to give Steve what he wanted, anything he wanted, what he seemed to be looking for. He still wasn’t sure what Steve wanted, because it still didn’t make sense that Steve still wanted _him_.

 

But—he thought carefully, testing it out, he’d been making a lot of assumptions about how Steve felt, how he’d thought he had to feel. But he would have thought Steve wanted nothing more than to teach him a lesson, beat him into the ground, strip him of everything he had, then walk away and leave him bleeding, if not just simply crush him into dust and brush it off his hands. But that wasn’t happening, so—

 

So Tony had to figure out how to go with this instead. He could do that, he thought. He could. He could . . . figure this out. He was supposed to be a genius.

 

Tony blinked again, took a breath, and reached for his soap. He could stand to be less emotional when he got out of the shower, he figured, and took a few more deep breaths, made himself concentrate on the warmth of the water, the satisfying pressure of it on his skin. By the time he got out of the shower and toweled his hair dry, he was feeling a little weird, a little off, almost drained, but more settled, and the stinging in his eyes was gone, at least. He made sure he was dry, and put on some deodorant, as an afterthought, before he got dressed in his pajama bottoms and shirt and brushed his teeth. That done and mouth tingling fresh with mouthwash, he took a deep breath and went out to find Steve.

 

“Hey there,” Steve said, looking up from where he’d been sitting on the sofa. Tony was surprised to see his sketchbook in his hand. He hadn’t seen him draw in—well, it had been too long. It put a smile on his face despite himself, and he forgot everything he’d been planning for a moment.

 

“Steve, you’re drawing,” he said, stupidly, he thought in another second, but the smile didn’t disappear, either.

 

Steve flushed, smiled self-consciously, and covered the page with one forearm. “Sure am,” he said.

 

“I’m not going to peek,” Tony assured him. “Just . . . happy to see you with it out again, that’s all.”

 

Steve’s smile went a little softer, and his arm relaxed. “Yeah,” he said. He looked at Tony’s face for another moment, and then said, “Just like I’m happy to see that smile, Shellhead.”

 

Tony suddenly felt self-conscious himself, and he knew his gaze had shifted down a little. He knew he hadn’t smiled much, lately, if at all, not in any way that wasn’t forced or practiced, but he hadn’t really thought about it. “Sure,” he said, trying for an easiness he didn’t feel. “Hang on, let me hang these up, then I’ll join you, if I could.”

 

“You’re welcome to,” Steve said, still smiling just a little, thought it was more crooked now, blue eyes on Tony.

 

Tony swallowed and made his way over to the closet. He took his time hanging up his clothes, thinking he’d give Steve a chance to finish up with his sketchbook, and by the time he reemerged, Steve had put it back wherever it had come from, and it was nowhere in sight. Steve was still smiling at him, though. “Hi there,” he said. “Good shower?”

 

“Um.” Good wasn’t the word. How could he ever describe the conclusions he’d come to in that shower, the way they’d made him feel? Not that he ever would, they weren’t Steve’s problem, not something to share, but still. Thinking about it made his head swim. “Yeah, it was pretty good.”

 

Tony hesitated another moment, not quite certain how he wanted to play this, and then Steve stood up, coming toward him, and that was well, perfect, wasn’t it? Tony took a step forward, then another step, and then managed to smile at Steve seductively, he thought it was seductive, look up at him through his lashes as he reached out to rest both hands on Steve’s chest. He felt so warm; Steve always felt so warm. “Is there anything I can do for you, though?” he asked, pitching his voice low and warm, not quite sultry, with just a hint of a purr.

 

He was happy when it came out right.

 

Steve blinked, swallowed a little, and his eyes went wide and a little dark as his color warmed. “And just what are you offering?” he murmured, but his hands were already skimming down gently over Tony’s arms, making him shudder despite himself.

 

“Oh, I think you’ve got a pretty good idea,” Tony told him, voice still low, tilting his head a little further, looking up at Steve through his eyelashes some more as he ran a thumb along the curve of one of Steve’s pectoral muscles through the heavy fabric of his sweatshirt.

 

Steve’s smile was soft and a little sheepish. “Yes,” he admitted, “but I like to hear you say it.”

 

Oh. Did he? Well, Tony could work with that. “Then come to bed with me, Steve,” Tony said, soft and low, letting his voice get a little throatier, a little husky.

 

“Now that’d be my pleasure, Tony,” Steve said, and then his hand was on Tony’s cheek, thumb tracing along his jaw, and Tony tilted his head up for the kiss Steve gave him.

 

His lips were gentle, sweet and soft, and Tony let himself have just a moment to savor the way they softened against his, the careful way Steve licked against his mouth and coaxed Tony to part his lips for his tongue. Tony had a brief moment of being glad that he’d brushed his teeth, before Steve’s hands came down to settle warm against his sides, one thumb rubbing gently above his hip, and he told himself that he was supposed to be making this good for Steve, not just standing there, soaking up Steve’s soft kisses. He slid his tongue against Steve’s, curled it to turn it hot and dirty, leaned into the kiss and slid his hands up over Steve’s chest, brushing his nipples, along his collarbone.

 

Steve sucked in his breath, quick and hot, and his hands tightened on Tony’s sides.

 

There, that was it. Tony leaned into the kiss even more, turning it hot and wet, sliding his hands back down in a way that made Steve shudder, thumbing at his hard stomach muscles until he felt them flutter and clench under his touch, then skimmed his hands down around to cup Steve’s slim hips under his palms and tug Steve toward him as he took a step backward.

 

Steve groaned and followed, still not pulling away from the kiss, responding eagerly as Tony swept his tongue around the hot wetness of his mouth, his hands fluttering at Tony’s sides, not gripping tight. Tony only pulled away to bite lightly at Steve’s full lower lip, then suck on it with just enough force to make Steve shudder. He thumbed at the divots of Steve’s hips through the soft fabric of his sweatpants, and Steve made another low, rough, eager noise. Tony spared a glance behind him for how close they were to the bed, then looked back to give a quick glance over Steve, which showed him that Steve was already desperately hard, tenting his sweatpants. The knowledge sent a little shivering thrill through him, to know he could get him going that quickly. And, well, good, that was perfect.

 

He slid one hand up over the sturdy, gorgeous musculature of Steve’s back, the dip of his spine, up over his shoulders to cup it around the back of his neck as he licked back into Steve’s mouth, dropped his other hand to rub at Steve’s hot length through his sweatpants, rubbing with his palm against the hard, heavy shaft once, twice, up over the head, then curving his fingers around it through the fabric, feeling how it fit in his hand, the weight of it. Steve gasped, gave a low groan, needy like it was punched out of him, and his hips jerked forward into Tony’s palm, back and forward again, his back curved as he arched, his fingers tightening against Tony’s shirt, curling inward. Tony rubbed his thumb over the head of Steve’s cock again and felt it as wetness soaked through the fabric of the sweatpants. Perfect. Steve already had so much precome, and he could feel the silky fabric of his boxers under his hand beneath the thick sweatpants, so he’d already soaked through two layers, still hard and jerking in Tony’s hand. When Steve started leaking like that, he was definitely into it. Tony curled his hand, rubbed, tugged, a little, slid his hand over the crown, and Steve let out a helpless gasp of air into Tony’s mouth like it had been punched out of him. He stepped in, and in, in a quick movement Tony could barely follow, until their hips were tight together, rubbing his hard cock against Tony’s thigh and up into his hand, both hands falling to grip tight against the swell of Tony’s ass.

 

Tony gasped, couldn’t help it, surprised at the sudden strength in Steve’s hands, the heat and muscle that pressed up against his body from shoulder to thigh in one quick moment. It wasn’t alarming, not that, but it was so startling, somehow, that he felt his breath stutter, and he suddenly felt hyper-aware of Steve’s height, his strength, the breadth of him, how he was just as in shape as ever, and Tony really was not, had lost weight and muscle. He could practically feel his control starting to slip and took a deep breath in through his nose, then out, leaning up into the kiss, pressing himself up against Steve, rubbing his hand up and down his back even as he stroked the other man’s cock through his sweatpants, almost petting him now, palming and stroking and squeezing through the thick fabric.

 

He was doing this, he could do this, he was going to make it good for Steve, and that meant letting Steve do whatever he wanted, and keeping a clear head through it, so that Tony could give him what he wanted without screwing it up. He rolled his hips, pressing them up against Steve, giving him a good ride against his thigh, thinking already about how he could ease them back down on the bed in a way that Tony could straddle Steve gracefully—he hadn’t been keeping as flexible as he always did, and he knew it would be tricky.

 

He didn’t see it coming as he reached down to fondle Steve’s balls, and Steve gasped, went up on his toes to lean into it, then back down, dragging in a harsh, heaving breath against Tony’s cheek, and then his hands caught at Tony’s hips and they were pushing him backward. It wasn’t harsh, but Steve’s hands were firm and followed by the movement of his body, and as off balance as Tony was there was no way he could fight it. Tony fought against the urge to clutch at Steve, to steady himself, even as Steve pushed in against him and he lost his balance, felt himself fall and tried to let himself, to land loose on the bed. There was a moment while he was in the air, then he landed with a jolt and thought to reach up for Steve, curve his hand back around his neck. Steve groaned, panted as he leaned down for Tony, fastened their lips together. The position pressed his body down over Tony’s, like a solid wall of muscle pushing him back into the bed.

 

Tony could feel his heart speeding up, fast and heavy in his chest and ears, and cold sweat breaking out on his palms. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened his mouth, leaning up for the kiss. Steve’s tongue swept into his mouth, hot and eager, and Tony felt himself groan, tilt his head back, and for a moment everything else went out of his head, everything except the pleasure and warmth of Steve’s mouth, the heat of his body. Steve’s hands came up, traced down Tony’s sides, dragging and hot, and Tony shuddered, couldn’t help the way he trembled and squirmed under the touch. He arched his back against Steve before he thought, gasped as Steve licked further into the kiss, and heat pounded in his pulse, through his blood. Steve brought his knee up, grazed the heat at Tony’s groin through his pajama pants, and the pleasure that shot through him took Tony by complete surprise, made him pant as he rolled his hips and shivered, gasping.

 

Abruptly, he remembered that this wasn’t supposed to be about him, he was—he was doing this for Steve. He turned his head, and Steve let their lips slide apart, trailed his mouth hot and panting over Tony’s cheek as he tried to catch his breath. His lips felt wet, and Steve’s hand was coming up, settling into his hair, closing in the curly fluff at the back of his neck that Tony hadn’t bothered to slick down. Steve’s lips were warm and soft, on the hinge of Tony’s jaw, down his neck, and he found himself shivering with sensation, even as he tried to think, to clear his head. He took another few deep breaths, until he felt as if he were in some kind of control again, and leaned up to settle his lips back against Steve’s, curling his arms around Steve’s shoulders and arching his back, intentionally this time, to rub their hips together. He could feel Steve’s erection, thick and hot, leap against his thigh, his hip, the dampness of the crotch of Steve’s sweatpants even through his own pajamas. _Good_ , he thought, thoughts still a little scattered, _good_. That was what he wanted. He shifted so he could roll his hips, cradle Steve between his thighs, wrapping both arms around his shoulders, and he kissed Steve intently, using his tongue, his teeth, every trick he knew as the kiss grew hot and wet and their tongues tangled together.

 

Steve was groaning into Tony’s mouth, back arching and hips juddering against Tony’s, his cock heavy and jerking between his thighs, so he could feel it against his own cock. His hand pulled in Tony’s hair, and some strange discomfort shivered down Tony’s back until it twisted up cold in his belly as Steve’s shoulders shoved into his, his weight pressed his hips wide, down into the mattress of the bed.

 

No, no, it was fine—he’d always loved Steve pulling on his hair, it was one reason he’d started keeping it long enough to curl, before—well, anyway, it was, it was good, he liked it. Tony turned his head further into the kiss, reaching down with his hand to slip it past the waistband of Steve’s sweats, then his boxers, and close it around his hot, dripping length, thick and rigid in his hand. Steve jolted, gasped, breathless, into Tony’s mouth, and Tony took it as encouragement as he began to stroke, pulling gently. He knew just how Steve liked it, and he made certain to pull just hard enough to get Steve going, twist his hand just where he knew Steve would be wanting it most. He focused on it, still rocking up against him, rocking Steve’s balls and the base of his thick shaft against his thigh as he gave him his hand at the same time. Steve’s breath stuttered in his mouth, his teeth sinking into Tony’s lip with a surprising sting as he slipped, gasped, hand gripping at Tony’s shoulder as the other twisted in his hair, wrapping the short strands around his fingers and _tugging_ and Tony was suddenly so, so vividly aware of being on his back, trapped and boxed in and Steve heaving and panting over him, his size, how little Tony could move.

 

Something went cold and quailing inside his chest, and he froze, for a second, before he remembered to keep breathing, keep his hand moving, but his thoughts weren’t on it anymore. There was a phantom sting in his jaw, and his nose, his cheek, and a moment later he remembered Steve’s fist, the shock of it smacking into him, and he—no, Steve wasn’t going to hurt him, get a grip, Tony, get a grip, he had to get a grip, but he—

 

Steve pressed a wet, warm kiss to his jaw and Tony trembled, panting, tried to suck in a breath of air in through his nose. His arms felt like they weren’t attached to his body anymore, and he could barely breathe. His hand stuttered on Steve’s length, fumbling because he couldn’t seem to remember how to keep up the rhythm he’d had just a moment ago. His fingers were trembling, he realized, and couldn’t think why. He had to—he needed to focus, he—he started his hand moving again, sliding his palm over Steve’s tip. His tongue felt cold and clammy against the roof of his mouth, and there was a crawling shiver trapped somewhere around the bottom of his spine. He tried to calm down, not sure what was wrong, tried to detach his tongue, moisten his mouth, spread his legs and pulled Steve down against him, rocking up into him, trying to distract him from whatever was going on with Tony. Steve groaned again, and then his mouth was back on his, tongue demanding access, and Tony couldn’t think what to do but open his mouth and let him, but—

 

Steve shuddered, shook, and then he pulled away. “Tony?” he said, and his voice was a rough rasp, thick and heavy and low with sex. Tony screwed his eyes shut, hating the idea of seeing confusion and disappointment on Steve’s face, his chest twisting up, frustrated and tight and aching with a pounding, tight pain, he had just wanted to please him, and—maybe if he caught his breath, he could get right back to it, persuade Steve that nothing was wrong—

 

“Tony?” Steve said again. His hand loosened in Tony’s hair, almost instantly, and came up to brush it back off Tony’s face. His touch, his warm broad hand, almost felt as if it burned against Tony’s forehead and temple, and he jerked away before he could help himself, made a tiny sound he wasn’t able to keep back beneath his teeth. Tony didn’t even know _why_ he’d responded that way, and he swallowed with a sudden twist of shame that was almost painful. He still couldn’t seem to catch his breath, but he tried all the same, bit his lip and then let it go, started stroking Steve again, trying to pull him back down with one arm around Steve’s shoulders.

 

Steve caught Tony’s wrist, though his breath was shuddering, and pulled it away, out of his pants. “Hey,” he said. “Hey, not right now. Tony, are you—okay?”

 

“Fine,” Tony managed to get out, but it came out sounding breathy and broken, hoarse and raspy and awful. His breath was heaving in his chest but he felt like he wasn’t breathing at all, and his chest was starting to hurt. “Totally fine. I’m fine. I—we should get back to—”

 

“Forget that,” Steve said, voice a little shocked, though he still sounded strained, heat barely restrained under his tone. His voice firmed, became more demanding. “What’s going on?”

 

Tony flinched; he could hear the order in Steve’s voice. “Nothing,” he gasped out, and tried to roll out from under Steve’s weight, but he couldn’t; Steve refused to move, to let him up.

 

“I don’t think so,” he said.

 

Tony felt his trembling get worse. He felt cold all over, chilled with cold sweat. “Just let me up,” he croaked, and felt pathetic for it in the same breath.

 

But it worked. Steve pulled back immediately, slid off of Tony’s legs, and Tony was shocked, by the release of pressure, that Steve had listened to him. It took two tries before he could roll onto his side, push himself up. His head spun, and he almost fell backwards. He still couldn’t seem to breathe.

 

“Tony,” Steve said, and his voice was more insistent this time, commanding. It snapped Tony’s head up with the pure force of it. “Tell me what’s going on, Avenger.”

 

The trembling spread, up from Tony’s spine, crawling over his skin, and the chill spread with it. Tony gulped, swallowing. He felt a sudden lurch of nausea in his stomach at that tone in Steve’s voice, could almost feel the blood draining from his face as his face and hands went cold. Steve was right of course, within his rights, he deserved an explanation, but suddenly felt faint, dizzy, like he was going to be sick. He couldn’t get his breath. All he could think of was Steve looming over him, and he—Steve felt so much bigger than he really was, even, like he filled the whole room. When he struggled up to his feet, the world went gray for a second, and he felt dizzy. He wobbled and almost landed on his knees.

 

“Tony,” Steve snapped, and Tony trembled. His chest felt like it was going to tear apart, and he still couldn’t breathe, even though he was heaving for air. He stumbled over to the sofa, laid one hand down on it, then had to brace both hands on it to steady himself. The room swooped and slid around him. He felt cold all over, but he could feel that his face was wet with cold sweat.

 

“’m sorry,” he managed to gasp out. It came out mumbled, almost a moan. “I—can’t—”

 

“What is going on, Stark?” Steve demanded, and Tony flinched.

 

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. He felt shame and self-hatred twist in his stomach, a lump bunching up his throat. He’d just wanted to please him. That was all. He couldn’t even do that right. He hung his head, tried to deny the tears prickling hot at the back of his eyes. He felt so tired. He still couldn’t breathe. He struggled with himself, mouth open and panting, trying to get air in past the throbbing tightness in his chest.

 

When Steve spoke again, his voice was—different. “What did I do?” he said.

 

Wait, no, no, that wasn’t right, Steve hadn’t done anything, he’d been—he’d been perfect, it was Tony who—who’d screwed everything up, who hadn’t been up to—the challenge—“Not your fault,” he croaked painfully.

 

“It obviously is,” Steve snapped, “You’re having a goddamn panic attack.”

 

Tony shook his head in desperate denial. “No,” he said. “’s me, ‘s not, ‘s not your fault.” He wanted to curl into a ball, bury his head in his knees and never look up again, but he—he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t. He stayed on his feet and tried to force his lungs to work, make himself breathe evenly.

 

Steve swore, behind him, and Tony couldn’t help how he flinched again. This was it, he thought with a desperate, morbid sort of humor, Steve couldn’t want him after this pathetic display, this was—

 

And all he’d wanted was to do something nice for him for a change. The sob was dry when it tore out of his throat, and there were no tears, just the sound, wrenching and raw and small. He hated himself in that moment with a viciousness that surprised even him.

 

He scrubbed one hand across his face and tried to remember how to breathe.

 

“Tony,” Steve demanded, “what the hell is going on?”

 

“I’m—” Tony’s voice failed in his throat, broken and gasping. “Give me a minute, Steve,” he finally managed. _Please_ , he thought desperately. Just a minute, to get himself back together, before Steve walked out on him forever, he knew he didn’t even deserve to ask that much, but just—just a minute.

 

“Okay,” Steve said tightly. “Fine.”

 

Tony’s knees felt weak with his relief. Or maybe that was the lack of air. Maybe both. He dragged in a deep, shaking breath, one that hurt his lungs, but it was a breath. He could breathe. He could breathe—

 

So Tony breathed. That was all there was for a while, just the unsteady inhale into his aching, seizing lungs, the trembling exhale, until finally the tightness started to relax in his chest and they came easier. But he just kept breathing, slow and easy, afraid to take it any faster, hoping it would calm him down. He still felt very cold, felt himself shivering as if it was from a long way away. Finally, he was breathing again. Almost normally. Everything still felt gray, and he was lightheaded, as if he wasn’t even in his body. But almost.

 

He rubbed his hands over his face. Okay. _Time to get yourself back together, Stark._ Everything still felt very far away. “I’m sorry about that,” he managed to say evenly, somehow. “I’m not sure what happened, just then.”

 

“Really?” Steve’s voice was tight, not quite shaking. “Because I am. You had a panic attack because I was touching you.”

 

“No,” Tony denied. “That’s not what happened. I—” he bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t say that he liked Steve touching him, just like that, it was—too much, he couldn’t say that now. “I didn’t mind it this morning,” he said, lamely.

 

“Okay, fine,” Steve said, and now his voice sounded angry. Tony tried not to let his shoulders hunch in response to the anger in that voice. “Touching you sexually. What’s going _on_ , Tony? Are you afraid I’m just going to start—start hurting you now? Is that it? I told you it would be your choice.”

 

Tony had no idea what he was talking about, could only think, confused, about Steve hitting him for a long moment before he realized, remembered Steve’s question.

 

He hadn’t even been thinking about that. “No!” he said, turning back around to face Steve, instinctively putting the couch at his back. “No, it wasn’t that at all. Steve—”

 

Steve looked very pale, and tired, his face lined and worn, collapsed in weary lines. His mouth was tight, as if with anger, and he frowned as Tony looked at him. “Wasn’t it?” he said.

 

“It wasn’t,” Tony told him. “It—that—didn’t even enter my mind." He wasn't even sure what to say, just knew he had to make Steve believe him, somehow, and the anxiety of that, the pressure of it, climbed in his throat, strangling him.  "Honestly.  I—it didn't.”

 

Steve sat back on the bed, looking lost now, confused. “Then what was it?” he asked heavily.

 

Tony didn’t know how to answer that. He stared down at his hands. “It was just too much,” he said, finally, with a little bit of a laugh that came out twisted, wry and desperate. “Being on my back, and—I guess I got overwhelmed.” He bit down on his lip to stop himself from saying, _I remembered you hitting me_. Just . . . no. No.

 

He had never admitted that to Steve before, that being flat on his back in bed, it—wasn’t his favorite position, it was too easy to feel crushed, overwhelmed, boxed in. On his stomach it was no problem, he liked it, but—

 

He wasn’t sure why.

 

Steve’s brow creased. “On your back?” he repeated.

 

Tony chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah,” he said, finally. Despite himself, his hand came up and he rubbed at his jaw. He didn’t even realize what he was doing at first—dispelling the phantom ache of Steve’s fist against his face. It wasn’t like that had anything with what they’d been doing, at all, but somehow—Steve looming over him—his mind must have lumped it all together, somehow. Even though that didn't make sense.  That hadn't even been what had happened.  That hadn't been how Steve was situated over him, he'd been standing, not crouching—but apparently that didn't matter to his stupid, stupid instincts, his stupid body. His stomach twisted, turned over, and he felt sick, nausea thick in his stomach.

 

Steve’s eyes were fixed on the movements of his hand. “Oh,” he said faintly.

 

Tony’s hand stilled, and he swallowed, hard. He didn’t know what Steve thought he was seeing, but he didn’t like the sound of his voice.

 

“Goddamnit,” Steve exploded, a moment later. He stood up, spun around, and stood there with his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched, so tense he was shaking. “God damn it.”

 

“What is it?” Tony barely dared to ask the question, but was proud of how even and reasonable sounding it was when it came out of his mouth.

 

Steve rounded on him, and Tony stubbornly didn’t let himself shrink back against the sofa, squared his shoulders as he looked at him. His fists flexed, and Tony tried not to quail, didn’t let himself back away. “You—you—” Steve’s face was very red, getting more and more flushed as Tony looked at him. “You remembered me hitting you,” he said. “That was why.”

 

“So what if it was?” Tony demanded. “It doesn’t make any diff—”

 

Steve cut him off. “So what if it was?” he demanded. His voice was terrifying. “It doesn’t make any _difference_? That you’re afraid of me in bed because you remember me hitting you?”

 

“Well, it doesn’t,” Tony said, stung enough that his voice picked up an edge of heat, too, even in his own ears. “It happened, it’s over, it doesn’t matter anymore, it’s not—not a big deal.”

 

“Clearly, it is,” Steve said, and his voice was so hot, he sounded so angry. “Because you’re _flinching away from me because of it_.”

 

“I didn’t mean to!” Tony said, more desperately than he’d meant to, but he didn’t want to be blamed for this just because of something he hadn’t even realized he was doing. “It was just—I don’t know, I just slipped, or something—it won’t happen again, I swear.”

 

“What the _hell_ , Tony?” Steve growled. “Are you really that desperate to please me? Nothing else matters, not even you feeling safe? Just push yourself right on past all of that, right? Do you even want to be with me at all? Are you _ever_ going to start being honest with me?”

 

Tony felt himself go cold, as if he froze, in an instant, right down to his bones. It hurt, the way being hit with a blast of freezing cold air would have hurt, far away and dull but inescapable. He felt his lips tremble. He wanted to say something—the right thing—but all he could think of was how badly he’d failed at the one thing he’d wanted, he’d wanted to please Steve and he was going to end up losing him because of it. “I—I—” his voice sounded so tiny, broken and small and rasping. “Steve, I—” He couldn’t breathe at all, and he didn’t know what he could say. He felt faint, like he might fall.

 

“Well?” Steve demanded, and he took a step forward.

 

“Please,” Tony’s voice came out rasping and wretched, a broken cry, and he didn’t even know what he was saying. He could feel his hand, sweaty and cold, slip on the back of the sofa, had to catch himself against it again. “Please don’t throw me away. I just want—I just wanted to make you happy, that’s all, I didn’t mean to have this happen—I’m sorry.” He hadn’t meant to lie to him again, he hadn’t, but he had, hadn’t he, he’d been trying to—to hide things—he just couldn’t do anything right, he was so, so broken, so stupid, so, so _wrong_ , everything he touched just fell apart.

 

There was a moment of silence, and then Steve said, hushed, brokenly himself, “Christ.” He sank back onto the bed. Tony shuddered, but he didn’t dare look away from Steve, afraid that if he did, everything would break, including him, somehow. His eyes watered as he kept them open, not even daring to blink, but he didn’t dare close them. “Okay,” Steve said, after another moment, took a deep breath and clasped his hands in front of him. “Let’s start over. How about you—how about you take a seat on the couch.”

 

Tony didn’t question it—Steve wasn’t walking out. If he wanted Tony sitting on the sofa, that was—that was fine. And his legs didn’t feel any too steady, anyway. He skirted the side of it, sank down onto the cushions, and dropped his head into his hands. He sucked in a deep, shaking breath.

 

“Do you mind if I sit beside you?” Steve said a moment later, and his voice was so different now, quiet and a little tight still, but soft, hesitant.

 

“No, of—of course not,” Tony managed to stammer out. He twisted around to look back at him. “Of course not. Steve—”

 

“Okay,” Steve said. “Okay.” He got up, crossed the room, sank down beside Tony. He looked so, so tired, Tony thought, and swallowed hard. He had done that—he had done that to him. Steve looked down at his hands, turned them over, clenched them into loose fists, and swallowed. “And do you mind if I—touch you?” he asked, faltering.

 

Tony thought about it, he did, but—there was no way he was going to deny Steve that, but still, he thought it’d be okay, he really did. “No, not at all,” he said, and it came out soft, almost hushed himself, still a little breathless. “I—don’t mind.”

 

Steve touched Tony’s thigh, first, squeezed just above his knee, then draped one strong arm around his shoulders and ran his hand up into his hair. He stroked gently, along over Tony’s ear, up over the crown of his head and then back down, and—and hell, it felt so good. Tony felt himself let his breath out, felt himself go limp, tried to not sag back against Steve’s hand too obviously, but he was afraid it was all too obvious anyway. Steve ruffled his hair gently, so gently, and didn’t stop. He sighed as he did it, and something in his tight muscles relaxed, too.

 

“I’m not going to—to break it off with you, Tony,” Steve said, after a moment. “Not unless—I mean, you do want this, don’t you?”

 

Tony bit his bottom lip. “I—I want it if you want it,” he said, finally, and somehow his voice came out even.  It almost sounded calm. He stared fixedly at a point over the television. He couldn’t look at Steve, not even out of the corner of his eyes.

 

Steve sighed, heavily, but his hand stayed so gentle in Tony’s hair. “I just want you to tell me the truth,” he said. “Don’t worry about—pressuring me or whatever it is. Just tell me. All right, Shellhead?”

 

The nickname got to him, burrowed deep into Tony’s chest and stayed there, warm and aching a little. “All right,” he said, softly, so softly, really little more than a whisper. This time his voice cracked, broke; he couldn't stop it.  “I want this. I want you. S-so much.” His chest hurt. “But—but I don’t want to be selfish. I don’t—don’t deserve you. Not really.” His voice broke again. “So.” He just—he was just trying to be less selfish. He was trying. He wasn’t sure he knew what it was to be less selfish anymore. To be better. He stared down at his hand, open in his lap and scarred, hard and callused.

 

Steve rubbed softly along Tony’s temple with his thumb. Tony shut his eyes, just to concentrate on the feeling. “Yeah,” he said. “I thought it was something like that.” He gently fluffed back sweaty tangles of hair from Tony’s forehead. “You remember when I told you I wanted this?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony breathed. He still couldn’t believe it. Tears prickled against his shut eyelids again and he didn’t even know why.

 

“So stop trying to spare me from yourself,” Steve said. His voice got sharp for a second, then eased off, went soft again, soft and even and sincere. “I want you. You clear? You hear me?”

 

“Okay,” Tony agreed. He thought he’d have agreed to anything if Steve kept touching him, but it was, actually, a reasonable request. It made complete sense. Hadn’t Tony been thinking something along those lines, anyway? Well, more like Steve should be able to see how awful he was, but . . . so they both had their own perspectives on it, but. Well. Honesty. He took a deep breath. “I hear you.”

 

“And I’m not going to—God.” Steve’s voice thickened, got rough. “I’m not going to ‘throw you away.’ Christ Jesus. I’m just worried about you.”

 

“Don’t worry about me,” Tony mumbled. He never wanted to open his eyes again. Steve was stroking his hair still. It was bliss. It was a kind of perfection he’d forgotten about. If he’d believed in heaven, he would have thought it felt like this, light and beautiful and nothing but good.

 

“You don’t get to make that call,” Steve said, still rough, but he didn’t stop stroking Tony’s hair, so that was all right. “I just—I was angry. You tried to hide it from me.” His hand tightened in his hair, just a little, not enough to hurt. “Why did you—”

 

Tony sighed. And here it came. He forced his eyes open. Tried to think of something to say. “Because I came into this wanting to do something nice for you,” he said, finally, too tired, too scattered, to think of anything other than the truth, bluntly spoken. “Because you did so much for me today, you were so—so good to me today. But I fucked it up. And . . .” he sighed. “Well, that’s all, really, I guess,” he said ruefully. “I just wanted to get things back on track. I thought I could get my mind back in the game. Sorry.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Steve said, and he sounded tired and just as rueful. He let his breath out, long and slow, ran his hand down through Tony’s hair. It felt so amazing that Tony shivered. “I pushed you too damn hard. I didn’t realize. Just—next time, just tell me to give you a minute?”

 

“Okay,” Tony mumbled. He could do that—he could. But some desire to be honest pushed him to add, “But I—I don’t always know when I’m going to need a minute.”

 

“Well, that’s fair,” Steve said. There was a moment of silence as his hand kept carding through Tony’s hair, still so damn gentle, making him tingle, warmth spreading through him wherever Steve’s hand touched. Tony sighed and let himself settle back into it a little, again, just let himself soak up that touch, live in it, just—enjoy for a second. “How about a movie?” Steve said, suddenly.

 

Tony turned his head to look at him, bemused, not even sure if he’d heard him right. “What?” he said.

 

“You heard me,” Steve said. He gave Tony a little smile. “A movie. We could watch one. Save the sex for another night. What do you say?”

 

“You were pretty into it,” Tony said dubiously.

 

Steve shrugged. “Yeah, well, I’m not, now,” he said, simply.

 

There was no blame in it, but Tony felt that same nauseating twist of guilt all the same, looked down. “I'm sorry,” he said.

 

“Hey, not your fault, mister,” Steve said, his voice light, as if he were keeping it that way on purpose. “I could make some popcorn.”

 

“I could do that,” Tony said. He tried not to worry his hands or let them play with the fabric of his pajama pants, took a deep breath and blew it out. Tried to make his voice lighter, smoother. “But really, Steve, popcorn? I’m going to get fat enough.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to get fat, Tony,” he said. “You don’t weigh enough as it is. Do you want popcorn?”

 

“I—I wouldn’t mind it,” Tony admitted. Something salty and buttery sounded—well, it sounded good.

 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten junk food, either.

 

“Okay,” Steve said simply. “I want to make it. You hear? You stay right there and choose the movie.”

 

Tony somehow managed to smile up at him, wry and crooked, but a smile. He doubted Steve really wanted to do all the work here, but it was clearly pointless to try and fight him on it. “Is that an order, Cap?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” Steve said. He smiled back, though it was crooked, too, small and a little wavering, and ruffled Tony’s hair, thumb bussing warm and strong back through the hair off his forehead. “Captain’s orders.”

 

“Okay, Cap,” Tony managed to get out fairly lightly. “I can do that.”

 

“Good,” Steve said. He looked at him a moment longer, then leaned forward, pressed a kiss to Tony’s forehead. His lips were soft and his breath warm, and they barely lingered, but they sent warmth tingling through Tony’s whole body all the same. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

 

Tony’s mouth seemed to have stopped working. He swallowed, felt it catch and work in his throat, struggled to make his mouth form into shapes. “O-okay,” he finally managed to husk out. Steve didn’t seem to mind, though; he just smiled at Tony again and moved to get up, running his fingers in a quick gentle pass back through Tony’s hair, just for a second.

 

“You’re sure this is what you want to do?” Tony faltered as Steve stood up and moved toward the kitchen. “I mean . . . it doesn’t have to be a movie, we could do . . . whatever.” He just felt guilty, Steve had been so into it, and he’d so wanted—so wanted—he swallowed.

 

Steve shook his head, turned back at him and smiled. “Hey, I want to do this,” he said.

 

Tony hesitated, but . . . “You don’t have to,” he said, “you know, treat me—treat me like I’m fragile, or try to . . . accommodate me. Just because I had some kind of stupid breakdown—”

 

Steve sighed and put his hands on his hips. “So I’m just supposed to ignore it?” he asked. “Well, I can’t. And it’s fine. I want to spend time with you, so unless you’re going to kick me out, or unless _you_ want to do something else—”

 

“No,” Tony said quietly. He sighed, looked down, leaned back into the sofa. “No, this is fine.” He just guessed there was no coming back from it this time. “I’m just sorry I fucked this up, too.” It came out very bitter.

 

“You didn’t fuck anything up, Tony,” Steve said, his voice verging on impatient. “All I want is to spend time with you. It doesn’t have to be sex, you know.”

 

Tony bit his lip against what he wanted to say. It was just that with sex he knew how to give Steve what he wanted, he thought. “Okay,” he said. He still didn’t see why Steve would want to spend any time with him at all.

 

Steve loved him, he reminded himself. Or he thought he did. Even now. He’d said so. He had to believe him. He had to—Steve—Steve wouldn’t lie.

 

Knowingly, anyway. He might lie to himself.

 

He had to believe him, though. There was nothing else he could do.

 

“Uh,” Tony said, and swallowed. “Listen. I don’t mean to—mean to be difficult. I’m sorry.”

 

Steve’s smile returned, just a hint of it. “You just had a pretty bad moment or two,” he said. “I think you’re allowed to be difficult.”

 

“I mean, sort of, I don’t know, all the time,” Tony mumbled. Even though he knew what a fuckup he was, it still hurt to admit that.  To say it out loud.  He'd spent so long trying to hide that, to cover it, to always seem . . . in control.  It made him feel like he was going to be sick.

 

“I told you,” Steve said. “I never asked to have it easy. Listen, you pick out a movie, and we’ll have a snack, and we can both cool down. Have a quiet night.”

 

“You’re sure that’s what you want to do?” Tony asked. He knew he was repeating himself and felt unbearable, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

 

“Yep, I’m sure,” Steve said.

 

“I feel like you’re humoring me,” Tony told him. His cheeks felt hot, prickling and burning. His whole body felt hot, and he was incredibly, unbearably aware of himself, how much space he took up, the way he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

 

“Kind of the other way around,” Steve said, with a little bit of a laugh, “or it would be, if you’d start.”

 

“Okay,” Tony said, finally, “I’ll humor you, big guy.” He still didn’t believe that was what was going on here, but how could he—how could he refuse him? Refuse Steve?

 

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve said, and somehow, improbably, he made it sound so sincere. “I’ll be right back.”

 

“I won’t go anywhere,” Tony managed with a smile that felt shaky, but at least he managed it. He turned his attention to picking a movie while Steve moved into the kitchen.

 

What did he want to watch? More importantly, what would Steve like to watch, too? He liked Tolkien . . . the Lord of the Rings might be fun, and they were long, good movies to—well, chill out to.

 

He pulled _The Fellowship of the Ring_ up on the TV screen and sat back to wait for Steve, trying to take deep breaths to calm his breathing down. The music that played on the menu helped with that, kind of.

 

Steve was taking kind of a long time. Tony was just about to get up and go look for him, and was just wondering if that would seem too—too something, clingy, maybe, when Steve came back with one _big_ bowl of popcorn and two large glasses of water.

 

Steve’s eyes went to the TV and lit up, and Tony felt a wave of pleasure. He’d chosen well then. Steve was beaming when he sat down. “This’ll be great,” he said, putting the glasses down on the coffee table and the popcorn between them. Tony looked at it and raised his eyebrows, noticing that about half of it was . . . pink?

 

“I sort of tried something new,” Steve said, with a sort of self-conscious little smile, setting. “Recipe I read about online. It’s err, white chocolate and sprinkles and some food coloring. The rest of it’s regular, lots of butter and salt.”

 

That . . . was really cute. Okay. “I’ll give it a shot,” Tony said. “You want to start it?”

 

“Um, well,” Steve said. “I was thinking maybe . . .” he picked up the popcorn, put it in his lap, then patted the space beside him, looking at Tony hopefully.

 

Tony couldn’t deny him, didn’t even want to. He tried not to think about it too much as he scooted in next to Steve, but he couldn’t deny that he was hesitant as he let his head rest on his shoulder. Steve smiled, though, and ran a hand through his hair again, letting his arm settle around Tony’s shoulders. “Okay,” Tony breathed.

 

Steve started the movie. His hand smoothed down over Tony’s back, up over his arm, over his hair and back down.

 

Tony closed his eyes. Cate Blanchett was talking.

 

Steve smelled good. Tony hadn’t been focusing on that earlier, but he really did. He was warm, and so—it felt good. Steve was so strong.

 

Tony opened his eyes after a second and reached down for some popcorn. He tried some of the pink stuff with the normal stuff. It was—really good, the perfect combination of salt and sweet together. “Hey, baby,” he said, after he chewed it, swallowed, speaking softly against Steve’s neck, “it’s really good.”

 

He could see it as Steve beamed at the screen. “Yeah?” he said. “It is pretty tasty, huh?”

 

“It really is,” Tony told him, and ate another handful. Eating the popcorn was . . . sort of soothing, it was easy to focus on that and not anything else, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder and just kind of—being there. Steve ate a big handful too, and it—felt good. Sort of restful. Like . . . Tony didn’t know. Not like nothing had happened, but like things might get normal again? Eventually? He still wasn’t sure how that was even possible, but—Steve was totally getting absorbed in the movie—it was so great to watch him read or watch something he was getting into, and it happened so easily with Tolkien—but his hand was still moving up and down Tony’s back, rubbing his knuckles gently—so damn gently—over Tony’s spine and the back of his neck.

  
Something sick and tight in Tony’s stomach started to slowly untwist. Breathing started to feel easier again as he ate another handful of popcorn. There was something about the gentleness in the way Steve was touching him that made his eyes feel hot, but he didn’t want to dwell on that. Instead he concentrated on the salty-sweet crunch of the popcorn in his mouth, the butter on his hand, the rhythm of Steve’s breathing and the sound of the dialogue from the movie, the images on the screen. Steve felt very warm there beside him. He’d felt cold for so long, it felt like.

 

Steve was being so good to him. He didn’t have any idea what to do with it. He didn’t know how to—to reciprocate. He didn’t know what to do for Steve in return. Giving him sex hadn’t worked, but—

 

Tony didn’t know what else he had to give.

 

He ate another handful of popcorn, picking the kernels one by one off his hand and popping them into his mouth. He was . . . aware, sort of, that the way he’d been thinking of himself, the hateful bitterness that twisted everything about it, was . . . it was an issue. He knew it wasn’t a—a balanced way to be seeing it, or thinking about it. But he couldn’t seem to do anything about it, and it felt so—so right, so deserved, that—he couldn’t seem to find anything else inside to offer Steve, and anything he could offer seemed so poisoned, by Tony, by his brokenness, by everything inside him, everything that had gone so wrong. That was so wrong. He knew Steve wanted things to get better between them again. He wanted that, too, but—

 

He guessed it felt like maybe he shouldn’t have it, because he wanted it so much. But Steve wanted it, too. He couldn’t make that decision for Steve, just because he—just because he felt like he didn’t deserve anything good, and Steve was good. That wouldn’t be fair, even without—without their history.

 

Their history just made it worse.

 

Steve moved his hand gently in Tony’s hair, rubbed and squeezed at the back of his neck. It was like he knew, somehow. Like he knew when Tony got too self-hating. Maybe his breathing had sped up, or something. Steve had always been really good with body language like that. There was part of Tony that still just wanted to just—go limp at that, relax into Steve’s hand on the back of his neck, the slow brush of his thumb along Tony’s skin.

 

He wondered what he could—do, maybe, to help make it up to him. What Steve would want, from him. For himself. He didn’t know. He didn’t have any idea. He couldn’t guess. Besides, hadn’t all his attempts at—at guessing, at assuming, at seeing the future, wasn’t that their problem? Maybe he just needed to listen.

 

Steve said he loved him. Tony didn’t know how to stop second-guessing that. To believe it. To trust it. But Steve was the most trustworthy person he knew.

 

He did want to give him whatever he wanted from Tony. He did.

 

Steve ran his hand along his spine, squeezed at the back of Tony’s neck again, and he sighed. He let his eyes slide closed.

 

He heard a little bit more of the movie, but that was the last thing he consciously remembered before he faded out into sleep. He hadn’t even realized he was that tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. A lot's happened. But I haven't given up on this fic yet!


End file.
